Transformations
by Vash the Vampire Slayer
Summary: Spike comes back from Africa, lost in the pain and confusion from getting his soul back, only to discover that something weird is going on. The scoobies are starting to behave strangely, while something dangerous is lurking around in Sunnydale.
1. Jinxed

The air in the kitchen was rich with the scents of sizzling meat, curry and rice, and also with the chatter of the friends that puttered about the kitchen, sharing an easy camaraderie.  
  
Outside the window, the sky was dark, save for a pale moon that was spreading soft, cool light over the garden, preparing it for coming frosts.  
  
After a long, calm summer, Fall had finally come to 1630 Revello Drive.  
  
To everyone's relief, the "bad guys" seemed to have been on vacation during the last few months. Sure, there were a few vamps here and there, some minor monsters and a couple of psycho moth-chicks, but in general, it had been a time of well-needed rest and recuperation from the stressful events of last Spring that demanded more healing than a bowl of Hägen Dasz could bring.  
  
"Pass me some more," Dawn pointed at the feta cheese on the counter, "of that squared dairy stuff!"  
  
"Okay," Buffy twirled the can in the air and then shoved it against her with a smooth "Cocktail"-move, "Squared dairy stuff coming up."  
  
'Hey!' she said to herself, 'I'm wasting my talents on slaying when I could earn easy money twirling booze containers in the air!'  
  
She looked over at Xander, who was enthusiastically chewing cheese as he half-heartedly diced vegetables,   
  
"There really should be," he mumbled, mouth full, "an international house of cheese. I would go there!"  
  
"Oh," Buffy replied, smiling, "I think you and that cheese should get a room",  
  
She grabbed the spatula and stirred the contents of the frying pan. As she worked, idly watching Dawn set the plates on the table, Buffy realized that this conversation was starting to become a bit too "corny" for her.  
  
"By the way," she changed the subject, "what do you guys think of the "Grr...Arrgh" situation? Maybe Evil slipped in the bathroom, hit its head on the toilet paper holder and killed itself for all eternity?"  
  
"Nooo!" Xander wailed through a mouthful of cheese, "Now you jinxed it!"  
  
"It's true!" Dawn agreed cheerily, "That's why I never say anything about math!"  
  
"Oh..." she added quietly, "...and also, because I suck at it."  
  
"Evil things come from jinxing!" Xander warned, "Evil things and bad movie plots."  
  
"Oh, please", Buffy said with a grin, "It doesn't..."  
  
A sudden, loud thump against the front door made them all turn their heads toward the hallway.  
  
"HA! See!! Here they come!" Xander waved his finger in the air frantically, "The hoards of evil zombies! Okay, who left the toxic waste lying in the backyard?!"  
  
He wasn't overreacting. Not much, anyway. On the hellmouth, loud thumps on the front door seldom meant nice neighbors bringing cinnamon-rolls - unless those buns were poisoned with magical transformation powder, or if the neighbor actually was a brain-eating robot from the future.  
  
On second thought, evil zombies was not at all an unlikely scenario. For a moment, there were no more sounds from the other side of the front door, but then they heard moans and a few more thumps.  
  
Then there was silence again.  
  
"Okay," Buffy headed for the door with Dawn and Xander following anxiously behind her, "$300 on the zombie theory."  
  
"Eh-hem", Dawn said in a low voice as Buffy reached for the door-handle, "unless the enemy is a vicious burger, I don't think that will help you."  
  
She pointed to the plastic spatula in Buffy's raised hand.  
  
"Oh...," Buffy whispered, embarrassed, then tossed her kitchen accessory aside before grabbing the handle and yanking the door open.  
  
The three friends froze at the sight of A badly beaten, barely recognizable figure lying on the porch. It took only a moment to recognize the body they were staring down at.  
  
Spike.  
  
* * * * * *  
  
His bare chest was covered with marks of torture, and his face was lost in bruises and wounds. Although it was clear that several of the marks and cuts had been healing for a while, many of the injuries seemed too severe, considering his vampire healing power. He lay there like a bundle of flesh that someone had thrown against their door.  
  
There was a long moment of complete silence.  
  
As she stared down at him, Buffy's mind whirled. Memories of the events that preceded his disappearance came rushing back uninvited. The cold floor against her back, his rough hand on her bruised body, and her words when she had fought him off, what she suddenly truly understood, not only with her head, but also with her heart:  
  
"Ask me again why I can never love you!"  
  
She thought that she was over it. She was wrong.  
  
'Why did he have to come back to remind me?' she thought, then wondered,'"what on earth could have done this to him?"  
  
Xander was the first to break the silence. He had never liked Spike, and the incident in the bathroom didn't exactly make him want to arrange a parade in his honor.  
  
"Can I stake the bastard?" he turned to Buffy with a dark look in his eyes, "I'll sweep the dust off the floor afterwards. Pleeease!"  
  
The thought of Spike's dust on her porch appealed to Buffy for about a second. It wasn't that she felt sorry for him, she just wasn't in the mood for dealing with death this evening.  
  
And besides, it would be wrong. Sort of.  
  
"No," she answered him, "Nobody stakes anyone. Murder makes me lose my appetite."  
  
"Oh, please, Dawn groaned, "He's already dead. It's not murder, it's more like corpse desecration."  
  
"OK," she reconsidered, "still not appetizing, but..."  
  
She stopped herself as she looked at Buffy and realized that her sister wasn't in the mood for a discussion.  
  
"We can't just leave him here on the porch", Buffy reached down, took hold of Spike and started dragging him toward the door. The movement made him turn his face and mumble something inaudible.  
  
"Are you gonna..?" Xander protested loudly.  
  
"But...!" Dawn joined in.  
  
"Or what?! Leave him outside like some fanged porch decoration? He would be more decorative that the Olsen's garden gnomes, but I don't think that the rest of the neighbors would agree about that."  
  
It was clear that Buffy had made up her mind.  
  
Xander and Dawn both knew that it would be impossible to turn her around, so they just stood aside and let her pass, both horribly upset over the vampire that was being drug into the sanctity of the Summer's home.  
  
"This can never end well", Xander shook his head, "Never."  
  
* * * * * *  
  
"OK, Xander said, looking down at the blond vampire lying unconscious in front of him, "now we'll have to burn the sofa."  
  
"Is he going to live here now?" he asked sarcastically, "Should I forward his mail? I don't want him to miss his subscription to Peroxide Digest."  
  
Buffy didn't answer him, she just sighed.  
  
She felt cold inside as she looked down at the vampire.   
  
'He always gets himself into a mess and makes me save him from it', she thought, already regretting that she had let him into her house again.  
  
It was a bad choice, but she had made a lot of those lately, so it didn't really feel like it mattered anymore. Her life was always crashing and burning anyway, so it was just as good to be consistent.  
  
Dawn left them, and went to the kitchen after a soda. As the open fridge door blocked the others' view of her she felt the tears coming. This was the first time she had seen Spike since Xander told her what happened.  
  
She felt angry.  
  
Angry at herself for not really wanting to stake him. He deserved it, she knew that, but she desperately hoped that there was some good explanation, like the chip had gone defective or something like that, so she could like him again and that everything would be like before.  
  
'Stupid girl', she thought as she wiped the tear away and put on her determined face again.  
  
A sudden cry came from the quiet living room.  
  
"No, God no!"  
  
* * * * * *  
  
Spike stared across the living room, his eyes filled with distress. Then he closed them again and covered his face with his hands. His body cramped with pain as his words blended with sobbing.  
  
"The blood! The faces! They're everywhere, staring!" He closed his fists "I can't...the blood's on me!"  
  
Spike's mind was raging, the feelings inside consuming him like fire. The memories kept flashing by in an endless tormenting stream. It was almost like he could reach out and touch them, like he was standing in that alley, that forest, that bar, with the taste of the blood of hundreds of people in his mouth, with the fading lights of their eyes staring down at him, with the scent of their fear grabbing him by the throat like death itself.  
  
Where was he? Was it then or now or an endless limbo? Was it hell? In some way he hoped that it was. It was the only way he could find freedom.  
  
Suddenly there she was. Her voice pierced through the fog in his soul, and he turned numb. He wished he could hide, but all was cold and barren. Cold and empty. Then the sound of his name being called out flashed like a bright light through his mind.  
  
"Oh joy. Crazy vampires is just what the world needs more of", Xander commented as he watched Spike twist and scream through Buffy's failed attempts to make him snap out of it, "Anybody got some Haldol? Or does that only work on the living?"  
  
Dawn stood staring, feeling startled and worried. Who had done this to him?  
  
"Should I bring some water or something?", she asked her sister, but Buffy didn't answer.  
  
Buffy was lost in anger and exhaustion.  
  
She wasn't in the mood for saving his sanity. He just needed to get a grip so that he could get out of her house and bother someone else. "Spike!", she shouted.  
  
Dawn took a step closer to Buffy. "Should I bring some..."  
  
Buffy looked at her, visibly irritated, "Dawn, I..."  
  
Suddenly she felt a hand grasping her arm, and she turned to meet Spike's gaze. Blue eyes met brown for a moment that seemed like an eternity, and then she heard him say it.  
  
"It burns, Buffy".  
  
Then he once again slipped into unconsciousness, loosening his grip on her arm.  
  
"Well, at least he's quiet again", Xander said.  
  
He felt his voice fade as he looked at Buffy. Her eyes wide with shock, she stood absolutely still, unable to move.  
  
"What is it, Buffy?", he said. "Did he do something to you?"  
  
Dawn put her hand on Buffy's back.  
  
"What is it Buffy?" she asked.  
  
Buffy looked at Xander and Dawn.  
  
"A soul," her voice broke as she spoke the words, "I think he's got a soul."  
  
* * * * * *  
  
As he looked in through the living room window at the dramatic events that took place in the Summer's home, he smiled. If anyone would see him there lurking in the shadows, they probably wouldn't recognize the reactions in his bizarre mimic as a smile. On the other hand, they would probably be busy being terrified and running for their lives. Even if it wasn't night. it would have been hard to recognize anything else but darkness in the features of his face and body. He was covered in a coat-like cloth that was in constant silent motion around him, more like quickly drawn lines than fabric.  
  
In the silence, a small silhouette came fluttering through the air. It was birdlike, but not really a bird. It had wings with long feather-like lines, disarranged almost like Mikado.  
  
As it approached its' master, it started to transform. When it finally reached him, his hand closed around what now had formed into a bony walking stick.  
  
He looked down at his transformed companion. "We have found the one", he said. 


	2. Issues

*Ping*  
  
The microwave announced to Buffy that it had finished its job on her overdue dinner. She opened the door and stared down at the food on her plate. "Oh joy. Microwaved nourishment."  
  
The tragic, re-heated meal somewhat matched the mood in the room.  
  
Without any warning, Spike had ambushed them again with yet another dramatic turn of events that left them feeling totally blind-sided. To their discontent, a call to the UK monastery had confirmed Buffy's epiphany. Giles had, after one of his trademark nervous ramblings, put the überwitches on the job, and it hadn't taken them long to confirm their suspicions. The ensoulment of a vampire is an event that's big enough to leave significant ripples in the spiritual realm.  
  
Buffy joined the others at the table, then started absent-mindedly poking her fork into the food. Her thoughts fluttered, mvoing through her head erratically, like lost butterflies.  
  
'Spike. Soul. Dammit. Spike'  
  
After a while she stopped poking, and resorted to staring at the curry- colored chicken in the hope that it would provide some sort of miraculous food-related revelation a la "Close Encounters of the Third Kind".  
  
"Well, Spike sure knows how to ruin a meal," Xander said, having decided it was time to lighten the mood, "Now I know why I didn't invite him to my rehearsal dinner. Oh, and I don't think the caterers had blood on their menu."  
  
That statement, however, immediately lead to an equally uncomfortable moment when they all were briefly reminded of the wedding disaster. As he felt a sudden sting in his heart, Xander realized that he didn't want to discuss that subject at all.  
  
Seeing the sadness wash over his face, Dawn was quick to take over the conversation for him.  
  
"By the way," she said, "Blood Boy hasn't resumed the crazy yelling. That's a definite plus."  
  
At that comment, Buffy slowly, almost unwillingly, lifted her eyes from the food to the stairs to listen, but there was no sound from the guest room on the second floor where Xander had reluctantly carried Spike on Buffy's orders after his little psychotic episode. It wasn't as if she couldn't have carried him herself, being Wonder Woman and all, but touching him would somehow have made the situation real, and that would have forced her to face the question of how to deal with him.  
  
But, as she sat there at the table, staring blankly up toward the darkness that resided on the second floor, she felt Denial Girl slipping.  
  
"I should patrol", she dropped the fork and promptly stood up, then stormed off to the weapons chest before the others could react.  
  
Xander and Dawn were swiftly brought out of the uncomfortable moment at the table.  
  
"No, Buffy!", Xander objected, as he stood up, then followed her quickly into the living room, "This has been a weirder than normal night, you shouldn't have to work! Or are you too good to just sit at home, feeling uncomfortable and awkward like the rest of us?"  
  
"Hey, it's my job. I'm the Slayer, right?", Buffy picked up a sword and examined it, "So that is what I'm gonna do."  
  
She added a well-used stake to her lethal equipment selection for the night, then grabbed her jacket and headed toward the door.  
  
Dawn immediately realized her mistake in bringing up Spike. She stood up so fast that her chair fell to the floor behind her with a loud thump.  
  
"Buffy," she called out, "we don't have to talk about Spike, we can talk about sports or movies or something! Or squirrels? You like squirrels right, all cute and twitchy and nut-o-holic!"  
  
But before she had finished the sentence, the door had already closed behind Buffy.  
  
* * * * * *  
  
Buffy felt the thumps of her own footsteps echo through her head as she headed to the cemetery. She had walked this road so many times before, in so many different slaying moods. When she had been happy, slaying was relaxing. When she had been sad, slaying was comforting, when she had been angry, slaying was a means of letting off steam.  
  
Tonite, she just walked on autopilot. The streetlights shone down on her with uninterested, sterile light as she passed through the empty streets. The wooden stake in her hand felt familiar in a comfortable way, and she held on to it as if it was some kind of morbid security blanket.  
  
She sighed. Normal people were at home with their families by now, sleeping or watching "Survivor" or drinking cocoa or doing whatever normal people do. They weren't devouring pig's blood, turning undead people into dust, reading spells on top of pentagrams or cleaning demon goo off the carpet.  
  
Cocoa definitely beats demon goo any day of the week, she thought, yet here she was. Cocoa-less and on a killing spree.  
  
After a while she felt the softness of cemetery grass under her feet, and the light from the street faded behind her as she walked among the gravestones of her office. She stopped and looked around.  
  
"Vampires? Where are you guys?" she said hollowly.  
  
She became quiet for a moment, and worked the spider-sense mojo.  
  
"I've brought a fair blushing virgin here for you, all helpless and tasty," she twirled the stake in her hand as she slowly progressed through the graveyard, "And a bunch of preschool children, young and succulent. Mmm..."  
  
She sensed it before she saw it. With a swift move, her fist made contact with the bumpy face of a vampire that jumped out of the shadows.  
  
"Let me introduce myself," she fended off the blows of the fanged fiend, "I'm Buffy, and I'm going to be you slayer for the evening."  
  
She heard a second vampire come up behind her, and she turned, tripping him with a low kick. She felt the adrenaline starting to rush through her body, an effective catalyst to her already boiling feelings.  
  
"Hey!"she said with rising rage, "It's always death and feeding with you guys, isn't it? Kind of narrow minded, don't you think?"  
  
She took a hard blow to her shoulder, and then felt the vampire behind her grabbing and pulling her backwards with the intent of making her his late night snack. She quickly turned and twisted away from his grip.  
  
"I'll teach you to be an asshole!"  
  
The vampire swiftly found himself pinned up against the nearest tree. Buffy began hitting him ruthlessly, her fist now bleeding from the force of her blows.  
  
"Die! You son of a bitch!"  
  
She felt the blood running down her arm, soaking into little pools of blood on the sleeve of her jacket.  
  
The pinned vampire lost his smug look in an instant. Faced with her unexplained rage, he realized a little too late that the stories he'd heard about the Slayer weren't just undeserved hype. He realized with growing horror that he wasn't going to be coming out of this undead. As he felt his body beginning to disintegrate around the stake in his chest, he heard the other vampire stumble away in panic.  
  
Buffy stood still for a moment with her stake raised. Then she dropped it and ran.  
  
* * * * * *  
  
She slammed the door of the darkend room open and stared down at him, forming a motionless silhouette against the light of the doorway. The only sounds were quick breaths that revealed her anger and exhaustion. It was hard to make out any shapes, and she wasn't sure if he was conscious. Then she heard the soft sound of sheets moving, and her gaze suddenly made out the whites of his eyes in the darkness.  
  
She couldn't see the expression in his face. She didn't want to.  
  
"You think you're being a hero," she said with a hard voice, "don't you?"  
  
Her right hand closed into a tight fist, and the blood from the battle wounds on her knuckles, startes forming a dark, spotted pattern on the carpet.  
  
"All that suffering and pain to get a brand new soul, to throw on my porch like some kind of trophy. Am I supposed to be impressed?"  
  
She looked at him with cold eyes. "It was all for nothing."  
  
He heard words. They didn't make any sense, didn't come together. He could feel them hitting him like a hard rain, but he couldn't see them.  
  
Was it her? Was she here? Did she see him?  
  
Then suddenly he was alone.  
  
The smell of her blood came crashing through the fog of his brain like a sledgehammer. That scent was something he could never forget. He had smelled it so many times. Sometimes shed by Spike himself, when he had repeatedly tried to kill her in the past. Sometimes shed by others during those times when he had fought beside her and watched her sustain countless injuries in the line of her work.  
  
And flooding from her lifeless body while he watched her lying dead on the ground under the fluttering light of the closing portal.  
  
For a moment, her blood pushed the confusion and insanity away, and with that, the mind-numbing pain and guilt that reality carried with it rushed in. With great emotional exertion, he slowly made it out of the bed, and finally knelt by the blood spots on the floor.  
  
The color started to become painfully bright, buzzing through his mind like Technicolor static sparks. He hesitated, then touched the drops with trembling fingers, and for a moment it was all truly real.  
  
As his body started shaking with sobs, bitter tears mixed with the blood on the floor.  
  
* * * * * *  
  
The morning after dawned in bright and bizarre contrast to the previous night's gloom. The context of the daylight, the morning paper and newly- made toast made the presence of the undead bloodsucker in their guest-room seem drastically unreal.  
  
The morning routine proceeded without either sister touching the subject, almost like that would have broken the illusion of normality.  
  
Xander stopped by before Buffy left for the Double Meat Palace. He sensed that the subject should be avoided, and kept to cheerful small talk before leaving to drop Dawn off at her school.  
  
And then there was algebra and super sized fries.  
  
* * * * * *  
  
An askew square of pale sunlight fell at the floor in the hallway from the afternoon sun outside.  
  
"Buffy!" Dawn yelled as she entered, "How was work?"  
  
Xander closed the door behind them with his foot, dropping a couple of paper bags and a big cardboard box containing packs of pig's blood on the floor, while trying to hold back a few unmanly huffs.  
  
"Greasy," Buffy yelled back from the kitchen.  
  
"Oh, did you buy stuff?" she emerged from the kitchen to join them, "I like stuff!"  
  
Dawn and Xander squirmed simultaneously at the thought of the blood in the box. It had taken quite some convincing by Dawn before she managed to talk him into stopping by at the butcher. Well, actually she had resorted to blackmailing him with threats of telling everybody they knew about the large collection of porn she found when he was babysitting her a few weeks ago.  
  
"We went by the second-hand book store for some magical books," Dawn replied, "and the comic book store for some Dragon Ball Z.and the butcher. Sort of."  
  
She grimaced, and quickly yanked a brightly-colored item out of one of the bags. It was a Pikachu-shaped lamp with a bulgy, yellow lampshade on top.  
  
"Look what they had at the comic book store! Isn't it cute!" she carried it into the living room and placed it on the book shelf between a couple of ancient war-goddess statues.  
  
"It brightens up the room, doesn't it!" she stood in front of the shelf, her arms crossed, and with a smile on her face.  
  
Effectively thrown off the butcher subject by the corny animé item, Buffy frowned.  
  
"You think I'm going to let you have a big porcelain Pokémon in our living room?", she exclaimed, "Take that away! And..."  
  
Buffy's words drowned in the sudden noise of the door being kicked open.  
  
"Anybody up for some vengeance?!", Anya yelled. 


	3. WTF?

Anya stood in the open doorway, the broken door on the floor in front of her, the afternoon sunlight highlighting her rippled demonic complexion. Rage oozed out of her like an unpleasant aura, an expression that was reinforced by the red dress flapping around her  
  
For a moment, she just stood there while the dust twirled around her, her hands hanging in tight fists by her sides. Then her eyes narrowed, and her right hand flew up, pointing a trembling index finger at Xander as she stepped into the living room.  
  
"I will make you pay!"  
  
Xander slowly backed up against the wall, staring in terror at his former fiancee. Dealing with an ex wasn't this hard for most people, but most people's former lovers hadn't spent centuries perfecting the art of maiming and torture in the name of venegance.  
  
A few weeks earlier, the trio had spent dinner playfully discussing how Sunnydale really could use a therapist that knew how to deal with the issues that only citizens of Sunnydale struggled with an a daily basis - like a supernaturally-themed "Dr Phil".  
  
Now this suddenly seemed like a really good idea.  
  
Buffy surely needed serious therapy regarding her post-death, then post- resurrection depression, and Willow could certainly use some help dealing with how she had handled her grief over Tara's death by almost killing everyone on planet Earth. And, if there was a supernatural Dr. Phil, perhaps Anya might have found a better way to channel her anger than to return to the demonic community, and then she wouldn't be standing in their living room like some sort of Prada-sponsored Grim Reaper.  
  
"Doesn't anybody knock these days?" Buffy rolled her eyes and sighed.  
  
Xander and Dawn stared at her, confused about the slayer's calm reaction.  
  
"Oh, please," Buffy crossed her arms, and looked at her baffled friends, "Don't you know that vengeance demons can't retaliate on their own behalf? Do your homework, guys."  
  
Strangely enough, even Anya looked surprised.  
  
"Dammit," she cursed to herself.  
  
It took a little more than a bitter demon with a bad memory to stir Buffy up.  
  
"I'm gonna call the insurance company about the door, since I guess you're not going to pay, Anya. I mean, since you're obviously evil nowadays," she sighed again, "Oh, how I'm so NOT their favorite client. If there was any justice in the world, the Watcher's Council would pay for the Apocalypse - and demonic-related insurance fees."  
  
Without another word, she walked into the kitchen. A second later, she stuck her head out in the doorway.  
  
"If she tries to hit you or something," she called, "just yell. Now, behave, kids."  
  
Dawn and Xander looked at each other in distress as to say "now what?", and Anya appeared to have completely lost her train of thought. Buffy had ruined her well thought-out entrance, and now she was trying to figure out a way to save the situation with her honor intact. To an outside observer, it must have seemed a lot like a scene from a whacky "Twilight Zone" variant of "Days of Our Lives".  
  
The only thing missing was a really big hour glass...  
  
The room was taken over by one of those very uncomfortable silences, the kind when you just know that somebody is going to say something stupid just to break the silence.  
  
And, of course, this somebody was Xander.  
  
"Demon again, huh?" he said the words a little too loud.  
  
His expression changed, moving from lingering terror to heartfelt pain, as he looked at the woman he almost married.  
  
She stared back at him in slient rage.   
  
"So," Xander felt his tension growing, "the vengeance job. good dental plan?"  
  
"Demons don't get caries, you moron!" Anya eyes narrowed, and she crossed her arms, "And by the way, seems kind of stupid for you to care about my teeth when you obviously had no problem tearing my heart out of my chest a few months ago!"  
  
Anya's voice was soaked with hurt. Although she had lived her life as a bringer of death and pain, she was more sensitive than the Scoobies ever had understood. Her heart was the reason she got into the demonic business in the first place, and her heart was the reason for her relapse.  
  
Xander remembered all the times she had been snuggled up against him, her smooth chin against his, her soft body close to his. Oh, he knew so well that there was more to Anya than blunt remarks and fashion sense. When he had looked into her eyes he had seen her soul, but now he only saw bitterness.  
  
And he had a hard time remembering why he decided to give it all up.  
  
He wished he could reach out and touch her, hold her, and tell her that "everyhing's gonna be alright", but that wasn't going to happen for a multitude of reasons. He'd lost his chance, and suddenly it didn't seem to matter if she did tear him in half and feed him to a pack of hellhounds.  
  
"If it's worth anything," Xander avoided her gaze, "I'm sorry. I'm an idiot."  
  
"Well, what else is new?" Anya replied.  
  
Without noticing it herself, Anya's face morphed back to her human appearance. Her vengeance mission had officially lost all it's momentum.  
  
"If you want to, you can beat me up," Xander offered.  
  
"Oh, please!" Anya snapped, "I came here to turn your body inside out.I don't beat people up, that's amateur stuff."  
  
Xander looked down at the floor, and Anya's eyes begun to wander, looking at everything but Xander. In the background, there was the faint sound of Buffy's voice as she was finishing her call.  
  
* * * * * *  
  
His sheets were tangled around him, like a big cocoon. He lay as still as he could, hoping that the demons would pass him by.  
  
But they never did. The blackness covered his heart like tar, and the whispers never stopped. They told him that he should die, that he was evil and bad.  
  
A murderer. A plague, a dagger, a poison.  
  
But she came to him. She held him, and wiped his tears with her small, pale hands and caressed his hair. The golden strands of hair fell against his face like soothing fabric, and the soft lips touched his forehead.  
  
She would save him, he knew that. The touch of her skin reassured him, the scent of her body told him that there would be peace for him, salvation.  
  
But then she disintegrated in his embrace.  
  
His love was an illness, and everything he touched fell to ashes. There were quick flashes of a shower curtain, a sink, an arm struggling to free itself from his grip, eyes.  
  
And then nausea swept over him like an tsunami.  
  
In his misery and madness, Spike didn't notice the Being materializing in the shadows in the other side of the room. Then something stirred his senses, and he turned.  
  
The Being looked down at Spike, pleased about the pitiful vampire before him. It was amusing that William the Bloody stared at him with the eyes of an innocent, terrified child, ready to beg for mercy.  
  
Indeed, William was going to be of tremendous value.  
  
It had really only been luck. The other one hadn't been useful for his purposes. He was way too strong, so there was no point in even trying. But here was the answer to his prayers, an unexpected blessing.  
  
Well, he didn't actually pray, but he liked the human's quaint expressions.  
  
He reached down slowly and touched the terrified vampire. Spike backed away, only to find himself trapped against the wall. The dark figure pushed a long, pointy figure into the dead flesh of Spike's chest. A small, ring of light appeared around the pierced area, and the glow became increasingly brighter.  
  
At first, Spike gasped in surprise, then the pain struck, and he screamed like he never had screamed before. Through the agony and, he suddenly saw a flash of images.  
  
No, more like emotional messages than images.  
  
Not like the memories he struggled against earlier, but dark, disturbing visuals that he never had seen before, and wished that he would never see again. He screamed once more, and this time not from the physical pain, but of the horror that filled him.  
  
The agonizing screams jolted the little group downstairs.  
  
Dawn immediately headed towards the stairs. Buffy followed reluctantly, suspecting that this time was about something worse than ordinary insanity.  
  
When they got there, they saw Spike's pale figure pressed up against the wall, with his face twisted in agony. On his bare chest there was a strange glowing circle.  
  
Buffy approached him carefully, reaching out her hand to examine the bizarre mark, but when he saw her, he jumped to his feet and backed away, moving into the corner beside the bed and crouching there, trembling.  
  
Buffy hesitated, but Dawn walked over to him, and got down at her knees before him, trying to catch his eyes.  
  
"Spike? What is it? Tell us?" she asked.  
  
When she spoke she noticed that something was off. Something about Dawn herself. She couldn't really put her finger on it, but she felt a wave of something. A numbness, kind of. And was it. amusement? But this was not the time for introspection.  
  
Finally, he looked at her. She was shocked by how tired and worn he looked. After a second, he tilted his head as if it was to heavyfor his neck, and his shoulders slouched.  
  
Darkness is coming," he spoke with a broken voice, "And I'm the one who will bring it." 


	4. That Kafka Thing

Soft fabric against the back of his neck. Fringes tickling his hand like little bugs. Hot, surface against the palm of his hand. The scent of pig's blood. He blinked, feeling naked and exposed in the bright light, overwhelmed.  
  
There were voices coming from the other room. They spoke in whispering voices, but they echoed through him. Heartbeats, breaths, scents of skin and hair. Fragments of humanity. The frailty of their existence so apparent. He looked down into the crimson fluid in the mug. It was the color of death. He closed his eyes.  
  
* * * * * *  
  
"Glowing birthmarks and apocalyptic revelations? Time to tape an X on the window." Xander, always the one to bring the popular cultural reference.  
  
"Yeah, aliens, that must be it", Dawn said sarcastically, slapping Xander over the head.  
  
"They'd better be one of those nice little hobbits with glowing fingers and not those who snatch bodies. Because I like mine. It's all smooth and firm, and they can't have it!"  
  
The others looked at the demon girl in the sofa.  
  
"Why the hell are you still here, Anya?", Dawn snapped.  
  
Anya suddenly was reminded that she was the enemy now. She came to bring pain and death, at least, she thinks she would have. If she could. Dammit.  
  
Immersed in the chaos regarding the Summer's house-guest she had sort of forgotten. Old scoobie habits die hard. The vengeance thing had been like slipping into a comfortable pair of pants, but now she felt like a sulking child who didn't get to play with the other kids in the playground.  
  
"Hey," she stood up, almost pouting, "You don't yell at the undead guy! He gets to stay in your house and drink your pig's blood! He's evil, too - and his body count is much higher than mine!"  
  
"OK, no," she reconsidered, "but he's still of the mass murderer variety! And he gets hospitality and blood! What's up with that?"  
  
"Anya, you don't drink blood", Xander said softly.  
  
"Well...that's beside the point!"  
  
Dawn looked at Anya with rising irritation.  
  
"A:," she began, "Last time Spike tried kill us was, like, two years ago. How about you? An hour? Remember, you went all Freddie Krueger and pointed fingers and stuff?"  
  
"And the:"Oh, oh, I will make you pay!" " Dawn mocked her, imitating Anya with savagely-accurate gesturing.  
  
There was that feeling again.  
  
It wasn't that Dawn lacked good reason for being angry with Anya. Something inside of her raged, like she wouldn't really mind having a baseball bat in her hands - right then and there - so Anya's dress could have a few more nuances of red. Big dark spots that soaked through the fabric, brown ones with coagulated blood, some pale spots from tears spilled whle begging for mercy...  
  
She paused for a moment, to shake those disturbing feelings off.  
  
"And B)" she resumed her list, "Spike has a chip...and a..."  
  
"A soul."  
  
The others looked over at Buffy. She hadn't been taking part in the Spike- speculations. In fact, she really hadn't said much since they brought him down to the kitchen. The others quit their bickering, realizing that the discussion now had taken a serious turn.  
  
Shocked, Anya opened her mouth to speak, but Buffy cut her off.  
  
"Listen," Buffy gazed into the kitchen, "I'll talk to him, find out if this means something, or if it's just crazy ranting and radioactive body-paint."  
  
She looked at Dawn.  
  
"Dawn, could you go to your room?" she asked, "I'm sure you've got some homework to do. I need to do this alone."  
  
Then Buffy was quiet, looking down at the floor with crossed arms.  
  
Since it was Friday night, homework wasn't an issue, but Dawn went upstairs without complaining. If Spike was going to stay in their house for awhile, Dawn would be eternally grateful if Buffy could sort out some of the issues that had created more tension than having a really large tesla coil in the basement.  
  
Dawn felt a lump in her throat as her feet skipped up the soft, fitted carpet on the steps. As she closed the door to her room behind her, she sighed, then threw herself onto her bed.  
  
Buffy was miserable, Spike was completely fucked up, and together they had always created cataclysmic matter/antimatter reactions, usually in the form of violence and/or sex. Unfortunately, for Buffy and Spike that almost seemed to be synonyms, which wasn't a good thing.  
  
* * * * * *  
  
Once Dawn disappeared up the stairs, Buffy turned to Xander.  
  
"Take our little door-breaker home," she told him, "Or to her hell dimension motel room or wherever she lives."  
  
"Well, as a matter of fact, I don't exactly live anywhere," Anya directed herself to Xander, "I got re-employed around lunchtime. You kind of were the number one item on my to-murder-list."  
  
"Nice to know that I'm in your thoughts," Xander replied, "Anya, but don't you think the others will feel neglected when you leave them out of your elaborate assassination plans?"  
  
"Whatever." Anya got to her feet, her hair flowing around her determined face as a sudden gush of cold air from the tarpaulin-covered doorway swept across the room, "I need somewhere to live for a while. Give me your apartment keys, Xander."  
  
Xander's eyed widened, "Give you my huh?"  
  
"You left me at the altar, so you owe me," Anya explained, "Consider it a downpayment on your eternal debt. A very small downpayment."  
  
"And then," she added, "I might only order you crippled when I get someone else to do my job. And perhaps I can give you one of those "Captain Pike" chairs, so you can dictate your heart-breaking memoirs with a cool red lamp."  
  
Xander burrowed his face in his hands, shook his head, then reached for the keys in his pocket. He lifted his head and looked over at Buffy, but she obviously didn't want to touch this discussion with a ten-foot stake.  
  
"Can I stay here for a while?"he asked weakly.  
  
"Well, the couch is vacant."  
  
"Come on," Anya tugged at Xander's shirt, "Drive me to your place and leave Buffy to her interrogation."  
  
Defeated, Xander nodded, then he walked to the plastic sheet and pulled it back, "opening" the door for her.  
  
As the plastic sheet fell back to place behind them, Buffy heard Anya's shrill voice disappearing down the driveway.  
  
"By the way," Anya was asking, "what the hell is up with the whole vampire/soul thing? Does Buffy collect these guys or what? Should I get a few of my own and trade with her on the lunch break?"  
  
It was a good question.  
  
* * * * * *  
  
He seemed so small and frail. He sat there with his eyes closed, clinging to his mug as if it was the only floatation device in a sea of panic, and for the moment it was hard to remember the Spike that they all had learned to know and despice.  
  
The cocky poses, the way he, a bit too conscious, used the dramatic effect of the way his black duster fell around him when he walked, and how he always had something annoying to say, that, it must be admitted, often was on-the-spot. But now he sat in her kitchen as a brokenvampire.  
  
Angel had never really said much about how it was for him when his soul was returned, but he had told her enough to hint that it was a trauma that went well beyond what people who had lived all their lives with an intact super- ego could fathom.  
  
She felt a pang of compassion in her heart before she reminded herself of the situation:  
  
Why the hell should she pity the psycho mass murderer for grieving his victims? Or was this a different person? Was he William now?  
  
She wished that USC had had courses in vampire psychology 101 during her short period as a student, then maybe she would have some useful answers. Professor Walsh had, after all, a cool specimen collection that surely could reveal some interesting information. Buffy couldn't help continuing this line of thought with the images of a primed hostile 17 drooling at the sound of a bell.  
  
She remembered her former boyfriend's sex-related Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde change, and tried to apply it to Spike, but it just didn't make any sense.  
  
And she felt guilty for trying to compare Spike with Angel.  
  
Her cheeks flushed as she thought of how Angel would react if he had known about her and Spike. He had given her up so she could have a normal love life, and even if she had grown to think that his big gesture had been a totally misguided action, she still wanted Angel's approval.  
  
She wished that this situation demanded beating something up.  
  
Damn, that would be good.  
  
And it would have been easier if Spike didn't look so much like something left in a basket with a bow at her doorstep with a note attached:  
  
"please take care of me, I'm an orphan ensouled vampire."  
  
* * * * * *  
  
He opened his eyes.  
  
Buffy.  
  
He hadn't said, or even thought, her name since that night in Africa. And now she sat next to him. Even in the bright, unflattering light of the fluorescent kitchen light, she was the the most beautiful thing in the world.  
  
She was the sunlight, the sky and the moon, wrapped in flesh and bone. She was the reason for living.  
  
She was the reason.  
  
He didn't deserve to love her. But he couldn't help himself. Her presence filled him with the sparkling warmth that only Buffy could bring. It was unmistakable Buffy-flavour that seeped through the cracks of the pain and the dark voices. It tasted like raspberries and cinnamon, and he couldn't help loving it, as if he was a starving man, saved from a barren wilderness.  
  
But he didn't deserve the sweetness of her presence.  
  
He deserved ashes.  
  
"Spike."  
  
Her eyes. He quickly looked down into his now lukewarm blood.  
  
"Spike, we need you to tell us," she said, "about what you said earlier. About the darkness? If something is going to happen, I need to know."  
  
Her words again, like bright snowflakes through his mind, twirling about as in a child's snow-globe.  
  
Finally the subtitles caught up. She needed his help, she said so.  
  
God, she spoke to him. She was real, flesh and bone, raspberries and cinnamon.  
  
"There was," he made his dry lips answer her, "a bloke in the room." Good, almost a decent sentence.  
  
"Or a ghost or something," he continued, "Dunno. He poked at me, through my chest. A lotta pain and images. Bad ones."  
  
He swallowed. Tried to remember, tried to make words out of it.  
  
There was a moment of silence. After a while her voice stirred him.  
  
"What did you see?" she asked.  
  
Rewind. Pause. Press play.  
  
And then there was Hellraiser in surround-sound. His fingers clenched the mug, making the tip of his fingers turn white.  
  
"Blood on the streets," he whispered, "Corpses. People were killin', hurtin' each other. Takin' what they wanted. Nobody cared. Soddin' Armageddon, it was. Dunno why or how, just that it was gonna happen. Soon. It's all kind of a blur."  
  
"What do you mean? Armageddon?"  
  
"It just..." he didn't want to remember, "Like everyone was evil, goin' insane. Everyone"  
  
"Any useful details?" Buffy asked.  
  
Her voice was surprisingly steady. At this point in her career, she didn't succumb to shrill yelling in the style of them female 50's movie characters, when "Apocalypse" was mentioned. She wasn't really sure why that should help against the aliens and the mutated ants anyway. Perhaps it worked as some sort of high-pitch frequency sonic weapon.  
  
"This groping guy," she asked, "did you recognize him? Can you describe him?"  
  
Spike blinked. He struggled for a second, as he reacquainted himself with speaking. Like riding a bicycle.  
  
"Black bloke," he lifted his head a little bit, "Not African-American or anythin', just regular black. With a cloak. Kinda melted together, the cloak and the guy. All black, even the face. Like a shadow. Just appeared and poked, then, poof..."  
  
"And what do you mean with that "you are the one who will bring it"?"  
  
"I dunno, I just know that I will. It sorta fades away. Can't remember much of it all, lo. slayer."  
  
He almost slipped up. In the corner of his eye, he saw Buffy become tense.  
  
It was quiet for several minutes. The low buzzing from the lamp filled the silence, sounding like large numbers of small, hungry, fruitflies waiting for a banana delivery.  
  
Finally Buffy spoke.  
  
"Why did you do it?!" Her voice was sharp and cold and cut through his very being.  
  
He didn't have to ask, he knew what she meant.  
  
Then the world of pain and guilt came rushing back from its hiding place. It engulfed him and buried him, soaked his fresh new soul. He fought his instant impulse to break down like the wreck that he was. He had no right to throw the weight of his emotional burden in her lap. He fought the tears, fought his body going tense, fought the impulse to throw himself at her feet and beg her to punish him, hurt him. She deserved that he at least looked at her. God, he didn't want to, he was sure he would loose all his resolve, but he had to.  
  
She was crying. What did he see in those beautiful hazel eyes? Pain. And disappointment?  
  
A strand of her hair had gotten caught in the track of her tears. He wished that he could reach out and pull it away, touch her cheek and tell her that everything was going to be OK. But he was the reason she wasn't.  
  
The world was whirling around him now, and he was sickened by the motion.  
  
"Because I'm evil.", he replied.  
  
She didn't answer.  
  
"Because I'm the scorpion on the tortoise's back," he said bitterly, "It's my nature, innit?"  
  
The room fell silent, deathly still. She stared at him as if it would all finally make sense if she could only look hard enough.  
  
"I dunno," his whisper broke the silence, "I loved you more than life itself. I don't see how I could..."  
  
His lips was trembling as he looked into her eyes.  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
It sounded so stupid. Like an apology would make it all ok. He could no longer hold the tears back, and with a broken voice, interrupted with sobs, he asked her.  
  
"Are you going to kill me now?"  
  
She realized that he actually meant it.  
  
He really believed that she could drive a stake through his heart.  
  
And he really believed that he deserved it.  
  
Inside Buffy's mind, a feeling that until now had been buried and silent started to make itself known. She'd kept it vague and distant, but now she couldn't push it away any more.  
  
Guilt.  
  
Buffy tried hard to make it go away, tried to make him the sole bad guy again, but watching Spike break down in front of her broke down the last of her barriers. She'd directed her energy to hating him so that she didn't have to listen to that inner voice.  
  
The fact was that she had hurt him. She was the hero who saved the world in the name of everything good and right, and still she had used him for months. She had abused him over and over, both physically and psychologically.  
  
And she was the one who had had a soul.  
  
In the end, who was the Big Bad?  
  
She reached out her hand and lifted his chin to make him look at her again.  
  
"No. I'm not gonna stake you."  
  
"Don't you remember," she removed her hand, but held his gaze with hers, "what Dawn said that night at the Bronze? "The hardest thing in this world is to live in it"? Dying is easy, believe me, I know. It's living that's the challenge. I won't give you a "Go to hell without passing Go"- freecard."  
  
"And I," there was pain in her voice, "have no right to throw the first stone."  
  
He looked at her, trying to understand what she was saying.  
  
Buffy felt she couldn't continue the discussion any further. She felt tired and worn.  
  
She got up from the table and left him with his mug of blood. He looked confused, but didn't speak up as she turned from him.  
  
As she walked away from him, she heard Xander at the front door. She put on her happy face, quickly wiping her tears away.  
  
"So you're still alive?" she called out to him, trying to sound cheerful, but missing the mark.  
  
"Well, for now at least," Xander walked directly to the kitchen door and peeked past her, "How was the interrogation. Could our undead guest provide any useful information? Should I book some time in my filofax next week for a brand, new, exciting Apocalypse?"  
  
Still aiming for cheerful, succeeding a little bit better this time, Buffy tried to sum up the intel.  
  
"Well, it seems like a mean ghost will bring on "28 Days Later". Spike was a little vauge on the details, but I'll do some research tomorrow, and I'll see what I can find.."  
  
Then she herded Xander back to the living room, pausing briefly to check the fridge. Inside, there was Dr. Pepper there that Dawn had bought earlier that day. Buffy knew Dawn would be furious if she took it, but as she reached for it, she noted that she really didn't care.  
  
* * * * * *  
  
Outside the window, the bushes twisted and swayed in the wind that blew across the deserted suburb street. The block tended to become something of a ghost town when evening fell. After all, this was the time where all the hard-working, white, middle-class families that populated this part of town stayed indoors and pretended that the world was a safe place, that the monsters under their well-mannered children's beds were figures of their imaginations, and that the growing body count among their acquaintances was surely due to drug-related incidents (It happens in the best of families).  
  
It was the hour when parents sat by the kitchen table and together agreed on the fact that their quarterback son, who'd just won a scholarship to Berkeley, was regularly waking up naked in the woods, with no memory but the smell of wolf in his nose, was simply going through some sort of phase, and that the pentagram on the floor in their daughter's room will come right out with a little bit of soft soap and some scrubbing.  
  
In the living room at 1630 Revello Drive, the Interdimensional Key rolled a two.  
  
She grimaced in disappointment as the Slayer removed her last red plastic Australian soldiers with a malicious smile.  
  
"You're totally cheating!" Dawn accused.  
  
"Don't be a cranky," Buffy looked pleased as she inspected the world map that was slowly becoming more and more covered by little green men, "Just because you're losing."  
  
"I think that sore looserism is a genetic defect in the Summer's family", Xander commented with a little laugh.  
  
From the armchair at the other side of the room the vampire watched their game. Spike felt like a tennis racket in the grocery department. All the time he had spent on Planet Angst these last days that made board-games and fun seem like a strange contrast.  
  
Reality had started to settle down around him, at least as long as she was with him. She was the anchor for his frail psyche.  
  
He was really grateful that she allowed him to sit with them in the living room during their game, but he had turned down Dawn's offer to join them, since playing Risk pretty much demanded access to all your mental abilities.  
  
And besides, he now had a strong belief that evil beings and world domination should be kept far apart.  
  
The struggle of the three colors surged back and forth on the board, and as the game progressed, the atmosphere of competition between them became more pronounced, especially when the red areas started to grow bigger and bigger.  
  
Buffy never liked getting her ass kicked, neither metaphorically nor literally.  
  
"Hey!" Buffy asked, visibly irritated, "Why do you never attack Xander?"  
  
"Well, perhaps because most of his countries are on the other side of the world, with you in between!"  
  
"Whatever, it's just not fair!"  
  
Xander's ears were getting sore from their increasingly high-pitched voices.  
  
"I'm gonna make some more popcorn", he said and walked to the kitchen.  
  
Happily away from the bickering, he picked up the bag of microwave popcorn and sent a prayer to the housing deity for a short stay at Revello Drive. The Summers' girls had been even more difficult than usual lately, and he didn't want to get in the middle of it.  
  
In the background, the sound of arguing continued, and Xander sighed as he put the bag in the microwave and set the timer.  
  
Suddenly a loud noise came from the living room.  
  
Xander ran to the living room and saw Dawn pinned up against the wall. She was choking and struggling to break free from the hand that was brutally gripping her throat. On her neck, several trails of blood ran out from under the fingers that was holding her in place. There were cracks in the wall behind her, stained with more blood.  
  
"Give me back South America!", Buffy yelled without loosing her grip. 


	5. Peter Jackson's Earlier Work

Under her grip, she felt the vulnerable throat, slippery with blood. The pulse thumped in dramatic rhythm under the tips of her fingers. The pressure of skin against the palm of her hand betrayed the fragile windpipe behind it.  
  
It would be so easy to crush it like porcelain. It would be fun. Wonder why?  
  
"Buffy!" the vampire shouted.  
  
Without loosening her grip on her helpless sister, Buffy turned to look at him.  
  
Spike stared back at her. Was this real?  
  
Feeling his soul splinter and drift to the floor like confetti, he closed his eyes. A speeding rerun of his earlier visions of horror flashed on the back of his eyelids. He struggled to make sense of the situation and understand if his mind was playing cruel tricks on him again.  
  
No. This was different.  
  
He heard Dawn's heartbeat drumming through his mind and Buffy's rapid breaths cutting through the room.  
  
This was real.  
  
He opened his eyes again and looked at her with sadness and confusion.  
  
"Buffy?" he spoke again, now with a whispering, pleading voice.  
  
Her golden hair fell in perfect, shiny strands around her face, ending in soft curls against her shoulders. Her skin was flawless and smooth as always, like an angel's complexion, and her slender body was dressed in a blue silk dress that would make any man turn.  
  
But her eyes weren't right.  
  
She had been his deputy conscience, his deputy soul, for so long. Ever since that night when he woke up terrified from the realization of love in his chest and heart and mind and body, he had not been the same. He was torn and broken and lost in rapture, and he was falling helplessly into her eyes from that moment on...  
  
But now they were wrong. Now his deputy conscience was holding her sister by the throat, with her sister's blood slipping down her arm.  
  
"What?" Buffy's voice was empty, emotionless.  
  
She abruptly released her grip, and Dawn slid down the wall, coughing and trying to catch her breath. A wide smear of blood marred the wall above her, painted by the open wound at the back of her head as she slid to the floor.  
  
Seeing it, Buffy froze. She lifted her hand and looked at the blood that covered it, then watched as the blood dripped down on the skirt of her dress, leaving small discolored spots and trails on the blue fabric.  
  
She looked away from that, and once again met Spike's scared gaze. She tilted her head a little bit, as if she was trying to find in his eyes something she temporarily had forgotten. He took a few tentative steps, then paused, but then finally closed the distance between them.  
  
Xander ran up to Dawn, who was getting up slowly. Luckily, she did not appear to be seriously hurt.  
  
"What," Spike reached out and touched Buffy's soiled hand, "are you doing?"  
  
She didn't answer. They just looked at each other with mutual confusion.  
  
"You bitch!" Suddenly a vase broke against Buffy's head.  
  
In a split second, Buffy turned around.  
  
"I'm your big sister," she grabbed Dawn's arm, "and I'm telling you to behave!"  
  
Then she slammed her right fist against Dawn's cheek forcefully, and sent her tumbling across the floor like a tossed rag doll, splattering wallpaper and the the couch with blood in classic Polloc style.  
  
Dawn landed on the rug in the hallway. For a moment she lay alarmingly still, but then she moaned a little and moved. Propping herself up on her bruised arms, she looked up at the silhouette of her enraged sister and tried to speak, but before she could accomplish that task, she slipped into unconsciousness and went limp on the floor.  
  
Xander rushed to Dawn's aid. Kneeling by her side and holding her protectively, he stared up at Buffy in disbelief.  
  
Taking rapid, unnecessary breaths, Spike once again reached out to Buffy.  
  
As he touched her shoulder, she spun around. Giving him no time to react, she shoved him away with slayer strength and he crashed into the opposite living room wall like a toy tossed aside by a child that wanted funnier things to play with.  
  
As Spike looked back at her blood-drenched appearance, a memory flashed through his mind. He'd noted it's presence in the stream of images that had filled his mind in the assault earlier that day, but it had all been so foggy. He knew that there was something specific he should remember, but it had alluded him. Now it was suddenly etched in his cornea, and he couldn't look away.  
  
The setting was a dark, midnight street. The streetlights were all broken and shards of broken glass were scattered on the pavement between smashed cars, some still with the alarms functioning, cutting through the air as sterile warning cries. People were running, and here and there, bodies were lying like scattered windfall. Human sounds were mixed into the symphony of the car alarms - screams, loud laughter and the voices of ecstatic party- goers, shouting out their ode to stolen booze and sudden, easy access to unconscious girls.  
  
He recognized this part of town - it wasn't far from Revello Drive, and he had driven past it many times, during those trips on his motorcycle when he hoped he would "accidently" meet Buffy as she was coming home from patrol or leaving for research sessions.  
  
Under a big tree on one of the lawns, he saw Buffy sitting on the dewy grass with her back turned to him. As he looked closer, he noticed that she was holding something.  
  
No, someone.  
  
It was a little boy that couldn't have been more than eight or nine years old. His head rested on her shoulder, and she rocked him soothingly, telling him that everything was going to be OK. But as his mental camera turned to capture them from the front, he could see that, although she was smiling, something was wrong.  
  
Like in the present, her hands were tainted with blood, only more of it. It also covered her clothes and was smeared down her pale arms. Then he saw that the boy was dead, his throat ripped out with brutal force.  
  
"I told you," he heard her calm and sweet voice, "not to throw toilet paper at my house."  
  
Then Buffy suddenly looked up at him. As he watched her, the image started to flicker, like they had reached the end of the roll of film.  
  
Then it was over, and he was back in the bloody living room, with the Slayer slowly walking towards him with the same look in her eyes that she'd had in his vision.  
  
For the first time in in a very, long time he was truly, thoroughly terrified.  
  
There was a shuffling sound from the hallway, and Buffy turned from him to see Xander lift Dawn's unconscious body from the floor and start to move towards the door.  
  
"Please," Xander saw he'd been noticed, "she needs to get to a hospital."  
  
"This is my house, and I haven't told anybody that they could lea..."  
  
A forceful blow to the back of her head knocked her out effectively, and she dropped to the floor, unconscious. Behind her, stood Spike with a big copy of "Remembrance of Things Past" in his hands.  
  
Thank God for pretentious birthday gifts from clueless watchers.  
  
* * * * * *  
  
Awareness of the growing, dull pain was what eventually awakened her, but it was soon joined by a brief wave of nausea. Her head was spinning as she tried to understand what was going on.  
  
It was dark. Were her eyes closed? No, she saw vague outlines of furniture of the guest room in front of her.  
  
A new surge of pain shot through her head, and as she instinctively tried to lift her hand to touch her forehead she felt a tug on her wrist that hindered the motion. She whimpered as the metal scratched her skin, but the pain quickly was replaced by anger.  
  
Who got the lousy idea to capture the Slayer like some kind of caged animal?  
  
She saw that she was caught by a pair of handcuffs that were suspended around a thin, but sturdy, metal pipe. She assumed that they were the ones that were left in her cupboard drawer, souvenirs of her X-rated activities with Spike earlier that year.  
  
Buffy tugged hard on the cuffs, but the pipe didn't show any signs of buckling.  
  
She paused for a moment, catching her breath. Then she returned to the pulling, now more out of anger than anything else. There was a black rage rising inside of her.  
  
The sound of metal hitting metal filled the room as a techno tune that was just so 1998.  
  
The predator inside was growing stronger, engulfing her, taking over her cerebral functions. Frustration was driving her to a frenzy, and she finally cried out in a loud growl that echoed through the empty house.  
  
Suddenly she stopped her desperate actions. Standing still, she looked out across the darkened room, searching.  
  
She wasn't alone.  
  
In the opposite corner of the room, he was sitting on the floor with his arms wrapped around his knees, something that made him look almost like a child. His blue, sad eyes were fixed on her, following her every move.  
  
"Spike."  
  
Her tone was something between a statement and a threat. She made a quick movement in his direction, causing the handcuffs to clang loudly against the pipe. She expected him to react, but there was no movement from her capturer.  
  
Finally she heard his weak voice through the darkness of the room:  
  
"There's something wrong with you."  
  
She laughed a hollow laugh.  
  
"And you are the one to judge that?" she asked, "You're a pathetic mental patient. A rehabilitated impotent serial killer is what you are."  
  
"I'm sorry," he spoke up again, and, to Buffy's satisfaction, he now sounded confused and frail, "I didn't want to. . But there's. you're not."  
  
"Loosing our line of thought, are we?"Buffy smiled viciously, "Don't worry, it's a common phenomena among crazy people",  
  
"I dunno what it is," Spike replied, "but it must be some spell."  
  
He remained still, crouching and with muscles tense as rock, observing her from a distance. Pale blue moonlight flowed through the bedroom window, highlighting the thin coat of sweat on her face. She was on her knees, hanging forward from the cuffs, and she was peering at him with eyes that lacked the spark of humanity. There was a terrifying vacuum in its place.  
  
Her dress was now slightly torn and wrinkled and stiff with coagulated blood. She was like the Angel of Death, the patron saint of slaughter houses and everything beautiful and unholy.  
  
"So", she whispered, "you like me like this, don't you, all tied up and helpless?"  
  
She laughed, then she leaned forward as far as the cuffs allowed.  
  
"Oh, come on," she taunted, "this is what you want, stalker boy. Buffy, the one and only, tethered and helpless, and all covered in a crusty coating of sweet, intoxicating blood. I'm quite a little treat for starving vampires, and I've heard that slayer's blood is quite a rush." She tilted her head to the side, baring her blood stained neck.  
  
"It's what you are," she continued, "You're a killer. You're a being of darkness and death. Do you think a fluffy little soul could change that?"  
  
His humanity was fluttering around inside of him, and now more than anything, he needed to catch it, to hold on to it. He had no practice in using this newborn core of self, and he felt himself. crumbling. Inside him, the battle for sanity raged like a hot white fire.  
  
He couldn't break, not now. She needed him.  
  
She didn't see it, but she needed him, and this time he wouldn't let her down.  
  
He would hold himself together. He would save her.  
  
This time he would.  
  
He stood up on weak legs, walked up to the corner where she was trapped, then got down on his knees in front of her, just a few inches away. Seeing her so close-up almost made him crack.  
  
He looked deep in her eyes, wishing desperately to find her somewhere in there, to find her essence swimming around in the patterns of the iris, coating the white of her eyes, or floating in the depths of her pupils.  
  
"Why don't you release me?" her voice turned dark and seductive, "we could have lots of fun you and me."  
  
She slowly licked a little spot of dried blood from her upper lip and tasted it, trying to see a reaction in his body language.  
  
He backed up a little, but kept his eyes on hers.  
  
"I know what the darkness feels like, love," his voice was hoarse with pain, "and I won't let you slip into it."  
  
Buffy stared back at him for a second, then suddenly closed her eyes tightly. He heard her breathing speed up and her muscles tense. A split second before her gleaming eyes flung open, she yanked the pipe apart with supernatural force, and before he could react, she had her hand around his throat, and he found himself being thrust into the big drawer next to them. Splinters of wood cut through the skin on his head and neck, and the pain and the shock made him cry out.  
  
Spike's desperate attempts to free himself were futile, and soon he stopped trying. His body became limp under her grip. He was in her violence, and maybe that was the way it was supposed to be.  
  
He had, after all, wished for hell.  
  
Without letting go, she slowly straddled him, pressing her body tight against his. Spike felt her breath tickling his skin as her lips stopped only an inch away from his. He tried to look away, but her other hand grabbed his bleeding face, holding it in place. Buffy smiled the smile of the conquerer inspecting her newly acquired assets.  
  
Then she leaned forward, briefly brushing her lips against his.  
  
"Spike," she whispered, "don't look so frightened. You're the Big Bad, remember? Well so am I."  
  
She released the hand that held his face, then slid it gently down his chest.  
  
"Aren't we perfect together?" she asked, "Death is in our veins, we shouldn't deny it."  
  
Her touch became harder, and the tips of her fingers started to bore themselves in his t-shirt covered flesh.  
  
She leaned close to his face, and whispered in his ear:  
  
"You know you wanna dance".  
  
Small drops of tears appeared in the corner of his eyes, and his cool breath escaped in short gasps.  
  
"Buffy, let me go", he pleaded.  
  
"Let me think." She bit her lip, "No."  
  
Buffy pushed him even further into the broken drawer. A small trail of blood came sipping down from a cut wound on his temple, and she stuck out her tongue, then slowly licked it off.  
  
"I'm bored," she said, "and I wanna play"  
  
With her free hand she grabbed his t-shirt and quickly tore it apart. She then leaned down and licked a wet trail up from his navel, over his shivering cheast, to his bruised neck.  
  
"Let me go", he gasped, an agonizing lump in his throat.  
  
Her answer was to tug him up on his feet and then grab at the buckle on his belt. She studied him with cold eyes, and then with a dark voice she spike again.  
  
"I said I wanna play."  
  
Leaning forward against him, she felt a sharp tip touching her chest. She'd forgotten that she kept stakes in almost every drawer in the house, and when she looked down she saw Mr Pointy aiming at her heart.  
  
Holding the stake between them, Spike slowly backed away from her with an expression of hundreds of conflicting emotions on his face. Not that he could ever stake her, not in a million years, but he prayed that she wouldn't call his bluff.  
  
He soon found himself standing with his back against a wardrobe door, staring at the Slayer on the other side of the dim room. Neither moved for minutes, stuck like a couple of chess pieces in the end phase of a game, waiting for check mate, with the ticking of the timer in the background telling them to time was running out.  
  
Finally she took a step towards him. He flinched, but didn't try to escape. If she was going to kill him he wouldn't stop her.  
  
She looked at him with calm cold eyes, and then she spat at him in the face. As she turned and walked out of the room, he heard her patronizing voice echo through the room.  
  
"Never mind. You're beneath me anyway."  
  
When he heard the sound of the plastic sheet in the hallway announce that she was leaving, all the tension left his body, and he fell to his knees, leaning on weak arms. He felt his intestines tighten into hard intricate knots, and the room around him started to spin, drawing him in into the horrors that had been hiding in the corner of his eye.  
  
He had no more strength and no more reason to hold himself together, so he fell boneless to the floor and dissolved into the darkness.  
  
* * * * * *  
  
The machine was making a strained coughing sound, but the white styrofoam mug remained empty. The green LED display received a punch, but seemed unable to take the hint, so finally the cup went flying through the air, landing several feet from the waste basket, producing a tiny thumping sound when it hit the floor.  
  
Sounds were welcome. Xander couldn't stand the empty and silent waiting room where not even the stupid wall clock made a sound. He stared at it.  
  
An hour.  
  
Almost an hour.  
  
Why couldn't they tell him anything yet? It couldn't be that bad. Sure, she was beaten up by a crazy girl with super powers, but Dawn was strong, she wouldn't.  
  
He paced another turn around the route that he had walked over and over since he got there. Behind the bench, rounding the big, ugly plastic plant (in consideration of the allergic people, he assumed), past the table with scattered toys on it, and back to where he started. He hated the green walls more and more every second, cursing the people who thought that they would be soothing and neutral.  
  
A moment later, Xander decided that his patience was exhausted, and he marched through the door labeled "staff only". He looked into the rooms one by one, trying to find her, but there were only strangers - pale, patched up, bruised or or just plain unconscious strangers. Men and women in green clothes were hovering over the beds, writing on clipboards and preparing shots. He wondered what they were doing to Dawn, and if they looked down at her with those same pessimistic expressions that he saw in some of their faces now.  
  
Finally he reached the last room in the hallway, and as he peered in through the scratched glass, he saw her. Her long brown hair was spread out over the pillow, and the tubes and the intravenous drip that were connected to her painted an almost surrealistic scene. She didn't look well. Not at all.  
  
And for the first time fear caught up with him.  
  
There were three of those doctor/nurse/other-people in the room, and they were clearly busy, which probably wasn't a good thing. After a moment, one of them noticed him, and immediately walked to meet him. He recognized her as the doctor that he had spoken to when they got here, and as she opened the door, she looked at him with a combination of compassion and stress.  
  
"I'm sorry," she said, "but you have to go back to the waiting room. This is a restricted area."  
  
For the first time this evening, Xander felt that he was about to cry.  
  
"I just want to know," he looked into the room, watching her pale appearance, wishing she would move, "if she's going to be OK?"  
  
"I'm sorry, Mr Harris, we just don't know yet."  
  
Inside one of the machines started to beep frantically, and the doctor excused herself and quickly returned to the bed. Their actions tripled in an instant, and it became clear to Xander that the people dressed in green were clearly more concerned now than a minute ago.  
  
"Please," Xander pleaded, whispering quietly as he watched them through the door that was still swinging back and forth, "Don't let her die." 


	6. Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!

There were many kinds of uncomfortable emotions that plagued humanity. There was that feeling that occurred when you had eaten way too much cake. There was that feeling that came when you were at an awkward family dinner and your uncle started making corny comments, nudging at you with his elbow.  
  
And then there was that feeling of waking up with dried tears in your eyes, leaning with with your cheek against a plastic toy tractor.  
  
Xander sat up, wiped some drool from his face, and immediately felt that nausea and a pressing headache were approaching. He sat up on the hard waiting room bench and looked at the clock. It was twelve o'clock, and the noon sunlight fell on him with tauntingly joyful light.  
  
Before he could get himself together enough to go force his way into the treatment room and demand answers on Dawn's condition, one of the doctors spotted him through the glass of the swinging doors.  
  
Xander stood up and went to meet him half-way.  
  
"Mr Harris, isn't it?" The tall doctor said as he entered the waiting room.  
  
Xander looked really hard, trying to decipher the doctor's facial expression to see if the news was bad or good, but the doctor's face give no hints.  
  
"How is she?"  
  
"I'm sorry, but she hasn't regained consciousness yet. She has serious internal injuries, and for the time being, at least, we just have to wait and see."  
  
Xander found himself growing increasingly angry about the man's neutral expression. He wanted him to seem at least a little bit upset - not this professional, this calm.  
  
"What do you mean - wait and see?", he blurted out, "This is your job for crying out loud, surely you can do better than that!?"  
  
"Calm down Mr Harris," The doctor seemed stressed by the younger man's bad temper, "We're doing all we can."  
  
"Do better!"  
  
"Perhaps," the doctor placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to bring out his friendliest voice, "you should get away from here for a while? Spend some time with friends? We've got your number, and we'll let you know as soon as there's a change in her condition."  
  
As the doctor left him and returned to his work, Xander sighed loudly in frustration.  
  
Coffee. He needed coffee.  
  
Xander's gaze once again fell on the vending machine. This time he was determined to make it give him at least some kind of liquid. He put a coin in the slot, and pressed the button, but once again the machine produced nothing but a few noises. Without a second's hesitation, his fist hit the display, breaking the plastic into little jagged pieces.  
  
Sudden, intense pain in his knuckles chided him for the angry gesture.  
  
"Friends!" he said to himself sharply, watching his injured knuckles turn bright red, then purple, "Perhaps I should spend time with some friends."  
  
* * * * * *  
  
He took a deep breath.  
  
Her scent was the only thing that existed. It soothed him and killed him over and over, almost like a Sisyphus thing, a path that never ended and a heart that never healed.  
  
Hell was this.  
  
It was the resuide of her presence that broke him and the horror of her absence that tore him apart. If he wished hard enough, would she come back to make it all right? Would she clean his wounds and tell him it was all a dream? That she had been a dream?  
  
She was heaven and hell, and when she touched him she left him in ashes.  
  
* * * * * *  
  
As Anya stepped into the Summer's house, she could do nothing but stare.  
  
Yesterday, this was a lovely little household that would have made Martha Stewart proud. It was a well known fact that when there weren't any apocalyptic battles going on, they always kept things neat and cosy, with matching fabrics and nicely organized bookshelf contents, but now she found herself in what looked like one of those "C.S.I" crime scenes, save for the missing "Police line. Do not cross"-ribbons at the front door.  
  
She stepped over a messed-up rug and found herself standing in a pool of blood. She felt a growing queasiness, tried to push it away, but the worries wouldn't leave her alone.  
  
Who's blood was it? And did she even want to know about the bloody copy of "Remembrance of Things Past"?  
  
Whoever was the cause of this still might be in the house.  
  
Or perhaps there was someone who needed help, she thought, embarrassed about her lack of demonic indifference. It was bad enough that she had come here to apologize and to see Xander again. It was now official - she was the worst vengeance demon ever. Once she was feared all through the realms, and look at her now!  
  
She silently cursed the humans and their corrupting company. They were like one of those street gangs with lame names, only with compassion and other crappy things instead of guns and powder that made people funny.  
  
She stopped and listened for a minute, but there were no sounds. Then she heard a small noise from the second floor. Cursing her curiosity, she silently made her way up the stairs, trying to locate where the sound had come from. A moment later, she was standing outside of Buffy's room, with her demonic heart pounding in her chest. There were drips of blood leading to the doorway, and a red smear on the door knob.  
  
That never was a good sign.  
  
She gathered up her courage and pushed the door slightly open and peeked into the dark room.  
  
She noticed a figure that lying in the bed, and as she took a small step past the threshold, she studied it intensly, trying to make out who it was, and if this someone was friend or foe. She realized with discomfort that those categories were somewhat vague for her at the moment.  
  
As she moved closer, she started to amke out out some features, and when she got to the bed, she felt a kind of tentative relief that the figure was Spike.  
  
He was lying with his back to her, curled up in a strained fetal position. The faint light from the window created a blueish outline that gave his silhouette an almost mysterious appearance. His body was shaking a little bit, and Anya could see his muscles moving in erratic rhythm as they alternated in tensing up and relaxing. His pale, bare back was covered in wounds that had left small spots of blood on the linen bedding, but the wounds didn't seem like something that his vampire healing wouldn't take care of.  
  
What took her a moment to notice was that he was holding a pillow in a tight embrace.  
  
Buffy's pillow.  
  
As she leaned forward a little bit, she saw that he had his face burrowed deeply into the soft material. Leaking out from the fluffy fill of down, she could hear muffled sobs.  
  
This couldn't be good, she thought, especially considering his unknown friend/foe-status and thus, his possible involvement in the unknown events downstairs.  
  
Anya was taken completely off guard. What did humans do with crying vampires? Was there some kind of etiquette regarding this, cause in that case she must have missed the memo.  
  
Ok, crying called for. empathy, right?  
  
For the first time, she actually missed Xander's annoyed comments.  
  
With a sigh, she leaned down and patted him gently on the arm.  
  
"Ehm. there, there."  
  
She waited for a response, but there was no change in his condition.  
  
She patted him again, this time a little bit harder.  
  
"There, there. There, there."  
  
Ok, now she was officially out of options. She left the room briefly, only to return with a bucket of Plan B, which she unceremoniously poured over the trembling vampire.  
  
As the cold water rushed over Spike, he jerked onto his knees on the bed, staring around him like a startled animal.  
  
"Hey, I'm not gonna hurt you! It's me, it's Anya!"  
  
He remained on the bed, wet and shivering, and looking at her without recognition. Then the pain seemed to push the shock away, and he peered out into the dark hallway.  
  
"Buffy", he slid to the edge of the bed and sat there with slouching shoulders, his eyes to the floor.  
  
"No", the demon girl replied, "Anya. An-ya."  
  
He lifted his head again and looked at her.  
  
"Buffy", he whispered.  
  
Anya felt a sting in her heart. The poor vampire was really messed up, not to mention lovesick. For a moment she found herself pondering on her own soul status. If she had a soul, wouldn't she be loosing her mind over her history too? On second thought, souls might be an overrated commodity since it seemed to have the side effect of insanity and, apparently, a pillow fetish.   
  
"What about Buffy?"she asked.  
  
He looked away again.  
  
"Did something happen to her?", Anya continued cautiously.  
  
There was a look on his face that she couldn't decipher, but it reflected a pain that she couldn't shield herself from. She took a step closer and sat down next to him on the cold, wet bed. They sat there for some time without looking at each other or speaking. This probably wasn't the time for interrogations.  
  
"I'm bad," he finally spoke, still looking away, "and she punished me."  
  
She looked at the pale, chilled vampire next to her, silently hoping that it was some kind of kinky sex metaphor, 'cause kinky sex she could deal with. Perhaps Buffy had a thing for crazy people?  
  
"I tried to save her, but I failed. I failed, and she punished me."  
  
She looked at him, now with worry in her eyes. That didn't sound like sex. Then her eyes once again fell on his wounds, and she felt a lump in her throat.  
  
Slowly she reached out her hand, and as she touched his bruised skin, he flinched a little bit. She felt that she probably was way out on the limb, but she needed to know.  
  
"Was it Buffy who did this to you?"  
  
"I'm bad," he was weeping, "and she punished me."  
  
What the hell?  
  
"So it's your blood downstairs?", Anya asked, trying not to picture the scene.  
  
Suddenly he lifted his head and looked at her like there was something he had forgotten, and then he was quickly on his feet.  
  
"Dawn! Where is Dawn!"  
  
Anya stood up, placing one hand on his shoulder.  
  
"I don't know," she told him, "Calm down and tell me what happened!"  
  
Spike stared straight at her for a second.  
  
"Did she die?!", he shouted.  
  
"Die?!" Anya asked. Not good, not good.  
  
"I don't know," he went on, "She was here, and then she hurt her!"  
  
"What do you mean? .Buffy?" Not good at all.  
  
"Did Buffy. hurt Dawn?"  
  
Anya was horrified and confused. What the hell was going on?  
  
"Is she here?", Spike rose, then ran out into the hallway, calling, "Dawn!"  
  
"Oh my God. Xander," Anya walked up to him, grabbing his arm, "Where is Xander?! Is he ok?"  
  
"He's fine. He was here but. he left with Dawn. After Buffy."  
  
He fell to his knees and covered his face in his hands.  
  
"It's my fault," he wailed, "I should have helped her. I should have seen."  
  
Anya sat down in front of him, not knowing what to think. She reached out and pried his hands away, holding them while she met the guilt in his eyes.  
  
"Listen", she said with a soft voice, "I don't know what really happened here, but I'm sure we can figure it out. It's gonna be ok."  
  
Yep, definitely the worst vengeance demon ever.  
  
* * * * *  
  
"So, let me get this straight, Buffy went completely crazy?"  
  
They were sitting in the sofa in the living room, both slightly shivering from the wet clothes that stuck to their bodies like uncomfortable second skin. There weren't exactly piles of men's clothes lying around in the house, and Anya would rather get a urinary infection than wear any of Buffy's ugly skirts.  
  
Anya insisted on making some coffee for herself and the vampire. Spike didn't have the energy to tell her that caffeine made him strange and that it often tasted like liquid cardboard, but at least the hot liquid helped a little in warming himself up.  
  
After a while, she managed to make some kind of sense out of Spike's depressing litanies, and she began to tie the loose ends together.  
  
"Ok, so a ringwraith came for a visit, made you glow in a non-post-sex related way, and gave you a personal preview of coming attractions. Then Buffy does a Faith in the spirit of your visions? Well, it's another Friday in Sunnydale. Come for the food, stay for the slaughter."  
  
She took a sip of the coffee, and looked over at Spike who, to her relief, had finally stopped crying.  
  
"It seems to me," she commented, "that the Big Bad of the week is the prime suspect...Elementary, dear Watson."  
  
She took another sip, then continued in a matter-of-fact tone.  
  
"Evil people never do things for no reason. I should now. It's not like I would appear in someone's bedroom and do some cool special effects just for the fun of it. There is always some pretentious scheme, usually involving taking over the world or making people sing horrible little tunes."  
  
Spike felt too disoriented to comment on the demon's conclusions, so he closed his eyes and Anya's voice started trailing off. But there was no rest to be found in hiding in the dark corners of his mind. The pain wouldn't leave him alone, it kept haunting him, covering him like a sticky pale fuzz, and he couldn't help seeing the Slayer's eyes staring at him. He couldn't turn away from her.  
  
Buffy.  
  
He gave off a quick gasp when he felt Anyas hand nudging him.  
  
"Could you point him out?" she asked.  
  
He was quickly pulled back to reality, and for a split second not really sure where he was or what was going on, and he jumped back a little bit then he saw Anya next to him.  
  
"Point out?"he asked.  
  
"The ringwrait, of course," she sighed a little, putting down her mug at the table. "Pay attention."  
  
"A lineup would be great," she tilted her head a little bit, looking thoughtful, "but we haven't got the suspect in custody, so you have to pick him out from pictures."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"You know, like those binders with photos. Geez, don't you ever watch "Law and Order?" I still have a lot of books on demons left in the Magic Box. Willow actually didn't manage to destroy all of my assets."  
  
A look of capitalistic bitterness flashed across her face, then she stood up.  
  
"We should go there and identify the bad guy. We don't know where the others are, so we might as well try to find out what is going on and how to stop it. I'm confident that this day still might end in happiness and funny paper hats!"  
  
He stood up too, not sure what was expected of him.  
  
"Paper hats?" He fidgeted a little, wondering if he should know where she was going with that.  
  
"You know, stupid colorful little things that people wear when they are happy?"  
  
Spike's head was spinning and he felt more tired than he'd ever felt before. He saw her lips move, but his brain refused to register most of the information, and he draw shaky fingers through his thoroughly tousled hair while trying to gather his thoughts. He wasn't entirely sure what to think of Anya's sudden reappearance. She had been there earlier that day, at least he though so.  
  
Hadn't she been in the living room? Hadn't they talked to her like she was the enemy? But he was losing track of the line in the sand. And on what side of that line was he standing? He had forgotten. Once he had known, but now he had forgotten. Perhaps if he thought hard enough, he could find it again, the line in the sand that was scattered around him as dust.  
  
Suddenly he became aware of the sound of someone approaching the house.  
  
"Anya!" he grabbed the demon's arm, pulling her against him, away from the hallway.  
  
"Hey!"She pulled her arm away, "We're not in that category of friends! It was only a one-time thing you know!"  
  
He shook his head, not at all pleased to be reminded of that little incident.  
  
"Someone is coming," he whispered.  
  
Before Anya could turn to the doorway, she heard Xander's voice ring through the room.  
  
"You slut!"  
  
Anya and Spike stared at the enraged scoobie that stood in the hallway, looking at them like they were guilty of a capital crime. His chest was heaving, and his face had quickly gotten that distinct color of too-ripe strawberries, which matched the dried blood that covered his shirt.  
  
"Xander!" Anya was clearly embarrassed and hurt, "What are you.?"  
  
"After yesterday I couldn't wait to find you and tell you that I missed you, and now I come here and find you with that monster! Again!"  
  
"What do you mean, I was just."  
  
"Oh," Xander rolled his eyes in contempt, "I know just what kind of girl you are. I let you out of my sight for a second, and you get drunk sleep with vampires. That's the kind of girl that you are!"  
  
Spike stood as paralyzed. Why would Xander act like this? Was he supposed to take a side here, and what side would that be? He was vaguely aware of the mug of coffee slipping out of his hand and crashing to the floor in front of him.  
  
Xander walked up to Anya, grabbed a handfull of her hair, then pulled her head backwards, making her wince in pain. Without hesitation, he pressed his lips to hers in a rough kiss. Then he let go of his grip and started to soothingly stroke her hair while talking to her in a soft voice.  
  
"But it's ok honey, I know it's not really your fault."  
  
He gazed over her shoulder, looking at Spike with cold, empty eyes.  
  
"I know who is to blame," he said.  
  
Without looking at Anya, Xander pushed her away, and she went tumbling into the hallway. When she stopped, she looked back at her ex-fiance with horror and sadness, but he paid no attention to her.  
  
He took a step towards Spike, who backed up a little, not sure what was going on.  
  
"Everything was just fine until you returned. Then it all went to hell. I wonder why that is?"  
  
"I'm thinking," Xander smiled a disturbing smile, "that you have something to do with that. You and that slayer whore of yours."  
  
He took another step, closing in on the confused and twitchy vampire.  
  
"You must be quite pleased with yourself," he said, "since you managed to completely corrupt her. Make her a monster, just like you."  
  
Then he paused for a second.  
  
"You know, Dawn's in a coma," he said.  
  
As he saw the reactions in Spike's face, Xander snorted.  
  
"Don't put up a show for me, I know you love it - the blood and the pain. Don't try that "I have soul now"- line. I know you. And I know what to do with things like you."  
  
Xander walked past Spike and yanked open the lid at the weapon's chest. Spike stared at him as he pulled out a big shiny axe, grabbing it firmly with both hands as he looked back at Spike with hate in his eyes.  
  
There was a loud scream from the hallway, and suddenly Anya came dashing through the living room, throwing herself over Xander and pinning him to the floor. The axe came crashing down into the floor, momentarily drowning the sound of Xander's loud protests.  
  
Anya waited until he stopped yelling and cursing.  
  
"Listen," she told him, "something strange is going on, and it's affecting you too. We're going to figure it out, but until then we have to stop you from doing something stupid."  
  
She looked up at Spike.  
  
"The basement door!" she said with a voice strained from the struggle, "Open the basement door!"  
  
Spike did as she asked, and before Xander could grab on to something sturdy, she pushed him in and closed the door as fast as she could, leaning against it while she nodded at the weapon's chest. Spike pushed the heavy box to the door as Anya moved away.  
  
"Sorry!", Anya shouted, futily trying to make her voice heard over the angry sounds that came from the other side of the door.  
  
She walked away from the noises and went into the kitchen, while trying to make sense of the incident.  
  
"Ok, it's not just Buffy," she said, "Something is really, really wrong here, and we have to find out what it is."  
  
Spike followed her, and stood next to her as she leaned over the kitchen island. She was right, something was going on, something bad and dangerous.  
  
Suddenly he felt a drop landing on his hand, and as he looked over at her, he met her teared-up eyes.  
  
"You really love him," Spike said gently, "don't you?"  
  
She didn't have to answer, it was written all over her face.  
  
Spike wrapped his arms around her small body, and felt her pain reverberate against his own.  
  
"We'll figure it out. We always do."  
  
He wasn't so sure he believed his own words, but at the moment that wasn't important. She needed him. Someone needed him, and that was all that mattered, and for a moment it felt like there was a Meaning.  
  
* * * * *  
  
The strange, rumbling chantings filled the air around the small circle of beings that were deeply absorbed in the ritual at hand. They looked like identical quadruplets, and as one might expect of identical quadruplets they were all dressed alike, in blue shiny robes, but thankfully not with matching bows in their nonexistent hair. They were short and wrinkly, almost like human/mastiff hybrids except for the creepy faint reddish skin tone.  
  
In the middle of their little circle there was a small glowing ball of light that flickered magically between solid and non-solid state, keeping time with their chantings. It lit up the place, but the light curved in an unnatural way when it reached the inter-dimensional area outside the circle.  
  
Outside the light, in the fluctuating state that surrounded them, the dark being waited. The cloth around him billowed along with the light as he was watching his henchmen's magical chores, and his dark eyes were fixated on the changing light, it was intriguing, almost hypnotizing.  
  
With impatience he reached out to the mind of the chanterers.  
  
"How long will it take?" His thoughts echoed through their consciousness.  
  
"Not long", they replied without halting their singing. "Not long at all, master." 


	7. The Young and the Restless

The store clerk on the floor behind her made small, annoying wincing noises as she slowly crawled away, dragging her broken leg behind her. Buffy knew that she easily could silence her, but she didn't want to risk accidently getting blood on the pretty new dress she'd picked out. Instead, she just hummed happily while she let the old one drop to the floor together with her underwear and looked over to the terrified woman.  
  
"Miss", she said, smiling pleasantly, "You wouldn't mind if I borrowed the bathroom, would you?"  
  
She looked down at her dirty, blood-stained body and sighed, "It seems like I need to freshen up,"then her smile disappeared.  
  
"Don't. Move," she said.  
  
As she walked past the racks of expensive, but yet surprisingly un-classy outfits, she let her hand slide over the fancy fabrics, and she took a deep breath, relishing the pleasant scent of fashion. Once she found herself in front of the mirror in the small pastel colored bathroom and inhaled the way-too-artificial rose scent from the air freshener, she smiled broadly at her reflection.  
  
"Oh, you're a pretty girl, aren't you?", she said to herself as she soaked a few paper towels and started to wash up.  
  
Fifteen minutes later, she exited the shop.  
  
"It's been a pleasure shopping at your store!" she shouted through the door as she left, "I will recommend you to all my friends!"  
  
The dress she had chosen was considerably shorter than the one that she left behind in a pile in the store, not to mention that it had a much tighter fit. The back was open, and was much more revealing than anything she had in her wardrobe. She had walked past this storefront before, but never taken a look inside since there was never anything in her style in the window until now.  
  
God, she could be such a goody two shoe some times. Speaking of which, what the hell had gotten into Spike anyway? Since when was he such a boring prude? He's a vampire, for crying out loud, not to mention usually the poster boy for decadence and everything kinky. A pang of irritation and frustration shot through her as she was reminded of the vampire. She really needed his hot, tight body, and he had the guts to put her own stake to her chest! Now she was all hot and bothered, which was only fueled by her lingering anger. The pace of her steps speeded up, and she started surveying her surroundings.  
  
As she left the small side street where the store was located and continued through the crowded main street, she could feel the male pedestrian's eyes turn to look at her, and she heard a few stray whistles from behind her back. Women's eyes followed her with sharp looks, while they tugged at their boyfriends, knowing that she was that kind of woman that they would pursue if she wasn't out of their league.  
  
The afternoon sunlight lit up the busy shopping street, bringing out the colors of the awnings, signs and advertisement flags. She looked around and felt a flash of contempt for these weak, naive people that covered the area like vermin. How could they live with themselves? Buffy stretched out and felt the strength of her muscular body surge through her as a growing wave of energy. She needed to let off some steam, and she needed to do it now.  
  
Her eyes finally fell on a man on the other side of the street, who was sipping from a mug by a table outside a small coffeshop while talking to a couple of other guys. Muscular, cute. He'll do. Her steps turned to the street, and with the sound of screeching tires in her ears she headed straight at her target. After a few seconds, the men at table noticed her, but before they could form any theories on her motives, she stood next to them. Her hands yanked the surprised man from his chair and pressed her lips against his, not meeting any resistance. Her hand grabbed his, and in front of his company friends she tugged him towards a nearby alley.  
  
"I need some sex", she said cheerfully. "You don't mind, do you?"  
  
* * * * *  
  
Anya had always thought that the scent of really old books had sort of a comforting effect. It smelled a lot like old leaves and stuff that was murky and frail, and it made her kind of nostalgic for the good old days when evil was evil and good was good and Celine Dion hadn't released any records.  
  
She and Spike were sitting on a couple of broken chairs in the remainders of the magic box, looking through the piles of books that were scattered on the table in front of them, impatiently flipping through page after page without success.  
  
There was a thick coat of icky dust on everything from the unwanted re- decoration, and it probably was quite unhealthy to inhale. Luckily, neither of them had any human lungs to consider. The place had been out of business since that little incident, and it would need a lot of work if it would ever open for business again. Too bad that Anya no longer had a construction worker as a boyfriend.  
  
"Dated this guy a couple of hundred years ago," she pointed out one of the reptile-looking demons to Spike. "Didn't last though, I liked long walks and nice dinners, he liked eating his own scales and praying to the devil."  
  
Considering the situation and his psychological state, Spike was surprised by the fact that he actually felt a bit of genuine amusement, and he figured that was a good sign. After all, he didn't want to follow Angel down Mopy Ave. just because he had a soul now, too. Unfortunately, the angst didn't go far around the corner, but he tripled the effort to keep himself together. He had to.  
  
Anya looked up at Spike while reaching for another book. "Did you find anything?"  
  
"Not really" he slammed the book shut and sighed, then he stood up and started pacing impatiently.  
  
"I can't stand not knowin' how Dawn is," he made a few nervous gestures, "or what's goin' on with Buffy. What if she. does somethin' bad? Kills someone?"  
  
The thought gave him a knot in his stomach.  
  
"I need to do somethin' about it!" He wrapped his arms tight around his body.  
  
"Calm down!" Anya continued to flip through the pages of the ancient text. "The most important thing right now is that we find out what we can do to stop what's behind it. Cause it seems like it's pretty much up to us now."  
  
Neither of them was especially keen on the idea of assuming responsiblity for finding the solution to the situation. Usually "they" - Buffy or Giles or someone else who was responsible and leadership-y - figured stuff out and pointed at who/what should be killed and alternatively, what they should hide behind tombstones from.  
  
"You're making me nervous!", Anya continued, while tightening her jaw, "Sit down and do the research!"  
  
Spike obeyed with a displeased grunt, and opened the book again.  
  
After a few moments of silent reading, Anya suddenly lifted her head and looked at him.  
  
"What's up with that soul thing? How did that happen anyway? Ooh, I know this one," answered herself excitedly before he could answer, "Gypsies, right?"  
  
Her face got a sad look.  
  
"Sorry about the sex, though," she shrugged, "No more shagging for you, huh?"  
  
Spike's face twisted in anger and distress. Not only did she stir the memory of the events preceding his quest, but she'd brought Angel into the story as well. Not to mention Angel's sex life, or rather, the lack thereof.  
  
"Ehm. it wasn't like that. No gypsies or anythin'," he ran his fingers through his hair, deciding that if he didn't tell her anything, she probably would never let it go. She could be such a little schnauzer sometimes.  
  
"I went to Africa. Went through some trials. And then it was. returned."  
  
Anya stared at the tense vampire at the other side of the table.  
  
"What do you mean?" she had trouble comprehending and sorting the information according to the world as she knew it, "You. chose to get a soul?"  
  
She tilted her head a little, still staring, "But you're evil, why would you.? Oh, I mean evil in past tense. Kind of hard to keep track these days."  
  
Spike looked down at the floor.  
  
"I. I hurt her, hurt Buffy. And I needed to."  
  
Anya instantly realized that she had touched a sensitive subject, and she went silent for a moment. The whole vampire/slayer thing was pretty crazy, especially considering the specific vampire and slayer in question. Not exactly unexpected that something would go terribly wrong. But still, get a soul?  
  
"Well, I guess that's the opposite of what I did", she sighed, "I mean, surprise, demon again! Definitely a theme for Jerry Springer. There's fighting and everything! Do you think there could be compensation involved?"  
  
Spike stared at her and stumbled up from his chair, "Demon?!"  
  
Dammit, he had felt that there was something wrong, but. What was he supposed to do now? It's not like he would chop her head of or anything.  
  
"Take it easy, I won't hurt you!" she stood up, trying to look convincing and non-threatening.  
  
"But you're a demon!", Spike blurted out.  
  
"And you're a vampire!", she pointed an accusing finger at him.  
  
They both stopped shouting atthe same time, and suddenly there was an uncomfortable silence in the room. Anya's arms fell to her sides, while Spike put his hands in his pockets and fidgeted a little. After a couple of minutes Spike spoke up.  
  
"Yeah. True."  
  
There was another minute of silence.  
  
"So, what's up with that demon thing?" Spike paraphrased, still not looking at her, "How did that happen anyway?"  
  
"I was angry and broken-hearted", she replied quietly, "and I obviously did something stupid."  
  
Spike felt a pang of pain in his gut and looked up at her.  
  
"Well, I sure know what that's like."  
  
"So", he continued after a moment of contemplation. "What does this make us? Are we the bad guys or the good guys?"  
  
It wasn't a rhetorical question.  
  
"Perhaps there aren't any such things as good guys and bad guys?" Anya didn't look like she was sure that she believed that, but that really, really wanted to, "Um. like it's a work in progress, you know?"  
  
To his surprise, for the first time, Spike felt a small flash of hope that perhaps there were such thing as absolution.  
  
"That doesn't matter now", Anya said with a soft voice while getting down at the table again. "We need to get this done."  
  
Spike sat down too, and opened the dusty book again, couching a little.  
  
Half an hour later, Anya let out a small, frustrated groan.  
  
"This is impossible!", she complained , "It could be anyone!"  
  
She threw the book she was using onto the table, where it thumped and fell wide-open in front of her.  
  
"It could be. Hey!" her eyes focused at the ink drawing on the page before her, "Doesn't this look like the one in your description?"  
  
Spike grabbed the book and turned it around, and when he saw the picture, his face lit up.  
  
"That's him! That's the bloke! It must be!"  
  
"Great!" she looked at him with enthusiasm, "So who's our lucky winner?"  
  
"Apparently," Spike read, following the ornate text with his finger, "he's called "Koz'sha"."  
  
"Not anyone I have heard of", Anya replied, "Probably a good thing though, that means that he isn't a world famous world-destroyer. Those big, bad apocalypse guys usually are big divas too, all "look at me! Look at me! I'm gonna crush your pathetic universe like a cockroach!""  
  
When she finished her exposition on demonic media whores, she looked over at Spike again, finding him staring down at the text with a horrified expression, his face more pale that what was normal even for a dead guy.  
  
"What is it Spike? she looked down at the book, What's wrong?"  
  
"Koz'sha," he said, "It means "Soul consumer."  
  
They stared at each other.  
  
"Oops!"  
  
"Oops!? This is why Xander and Buffy have been loosin' it! They are soulless!" Spike took rapid, unnecessary breaths, "Bloody hell!"  
  
He slammed his fists into the open book.  
  
In the corner of his eye he saw Anya dashing off with furious steps, heading straight to the small weapon stash behind the counter. A few weapons within reach came in handy when she needed to kill various intruding monsters or threaten shoplifters. With a furious look she reached her hand down behind the counter and pulled out a big blood-stained mace.  
  
"He better give back those souls. Xander is mine! All of him, soul included, and I'm not lenient when it comes to robbing me of my property!"  
  
"Anya, that bloke didn't seem like one that you simply could slice and dice." Spike's eyes turned to the text again, "We have to find out what he's about first."  
  
Anya reluctantly walked up to the table again and squatted next to him, dropping the unsanitary weapon on the table, "Ok, find out more so I can kill the bastard!"  
  
Spike peered, trying to make out the ancient text, "It says something about. time shift. It seems like he has got the ability to sorta shift out of phase with time."  
  
"Sounds like a cool party trick," Anya commented.  
  
"Apparently he also has the ability to move between dimensions," Spike looked closer, trying to make out a few blurry words, "It seems like he. feeds on souls, it keeps him alive."  
  
"So he has eaten Xander's soul!" she shouted, "That gluttony asshole!"  
  
"Well. Lemme see," Spike continued reading, "His goal is to do a kind of mass theft of souls. This is when he actually consumes them. Apparently he has done this in other dimensions, with really creepy results."  
  
"Bloody hell!" his eyes widened, "If I've understood this right he has the power to steal the souls of half of North America!"  
  
"Sweet mother of God!" Anya replied, clearly horrified, "Not that I know if the rest of the world would tell the difference, but still. Ok, what else does it say?"  
  
"In the first phase, he needs a... core, an engine to remove the souls from the bodies. In order to acquire this engine, he might make collect souls of individuals that he thinks could try to hinder the ritual, in an effort to distract them. We're probably not affected 'cause we're not human enough."  
  
"Well, it doesn't seem like there has been any epidemics," she leaned over the book, "So perhaps that is the case? Any indication on how that works?"  
  
"He uses some kind of vessel, a... a pet of some sort that can change into things," he looked closer, trying to make a half-decent excerpt for the worried demon out of the old, complicated text, "The vessel starts the capturing the souls of people when they come within it's reach, then they don't even need to stay there, it has already started."  
  
"Oh!" His face lit up. "But this first small-scare soul-suckin' isn't necessary forever. If it's stopped in time, a day or so, their souls come back! We can save them!"  
  
Spike felt a sudden rush of joy. Buffy and Dawn weren't lost!  
  
Anya sighed in relief. She felt a little tear trickling down her face.  
  
"How!? How do we do it?" she asked.  
  
"It says", he continued, "that we have to destroy the vessel. Seems easy enough! And then we've got Xander and Buffy to help us stop the bloke. Buffy's good with demons you know!"  
  
He looked at Anya with enthusiasm. "We can do that!"  
  
"Yeah! Go team!" she looked back at the book, "So, tell me more about this engine thing?"  
  
"It changes into a thing, somethin' that's placed in the house I suppose," his eyes widened, "He takes some kind of sample in order to create the spell to be able to use the engine."  
  
He paused for a second, "The engine is. an essence wrapped in dead flesh."  
  
Anya gasped.  
  
"He needs the soul of a vampire," he lifted his head, "Of me."  
  
Spike's eyes became empty, and he stepped up from the chair, stumbling away from the book as if it was poisonous. He froze and took a shallow breath.  
  
"I'm. I felt that I had a part of it, but I. I didn't want to believe that. He did this to them so they wouldn't protect me."  
  
He looked confused and his gaze fluttered around, revealing a growing pain. Finally he got down on his heels while leaning against the counter, covering his face in his hands. Inside of him there was a darkness, a big black spot that quickly covered his mind like spilled ink. Why did he even for a minute believe that he could make things right? That he could be a source of something good? How could he think that.?  
  
He vaguely noticed that Anya had put her hand on his arm.  
  
"It doesn't have to end like that," she took his hand, pulling him up from the floor, "Let's go to the house and find the vessel. Then Buffy will save the day, ok?"  
  
He didn't answer, but followed her passively when she pulled him towards the door, picking up his blanket on the way for the dash to the rental car outside.  
  
"I don't want to hurt them" he whispered.  
  
"I know", Anya replied. "I know."  
  
* * * * *  
  
First there was a flash of light, then the diffuse, but very unpleasant, sensation in her body. Her tongue felt like sandpaper and there was a thirst growing in her throat. Her mind spun around in confusion, and as she slowly opened her eyes she found herself staring at a nest of tubes that surrounded her, Dawn panicked. Her arms started to wave around, attempting to free herself from all the things she was connected to, and her breaths came in shallow, panicked gasps.  
  
Then she stopped.  
  
The memories started to trickle back, first in little pieces, then in an overwhelming flood. With a deep breath, she tookhold of the IV-needle that still was attached to her trembling arm, and yanked it out, twitching a little from the sudden pain. Then she became aware of the small sound from the machines.  
  
This was a hospital. Nurses, doctors.  
  
The awakening probably set off some kind of alarm, and they would no doubt come here soon to check on her condition. Then they would keep her here for days, and she had no intention of staying.  
  
She remembered now. And she had places to be, not sure where, but not here.  
  
Dawn finally sat up, and with an impressive effort, she managed to get her feet down onto the cold floor, and finally to stand on weak legs while leaning against the bed. She tried to take a small step, but immediately fell to the floor, landing with her cheek hard on the floor, scraping her skin against the cement. With tears in her eyes, she got up on her knees and finally on her limp legs again, and stumbled to a linen closet on the other side of the room. She was fumbling, but managed to get it open and get inside.  
  
As she closed the door behind her and crawled up against the back wall, panting from the effort, she heard a few people enter the room, chatting casually, but then their voices were raised, and she could hear them hurrying out of the room to find their lost patient. As soon as they had left the room she exhaled, not aware that she had been holding her breath for a moment. Then her hands fisted in her lap.  
  
Buffy.  
  
Dawn looked down at her bruised arm. Buffy did this to her. Her own sister. She left her here in a hospital bed, hooked up to creepy machines and poked at by creepy doctors.  
  
Buffy was gonna pay for this, she thought as she leaned her head back against the wall, taking another deep breath while closing her eyes tightly. She would really get what she deserved. 


	8. Let's AGo!

Buffy heard her exhausted John Doe slide to the ground behind her as she left the alley. A pleased smile was on her swollen lips.  
  
Well, well. Now she felt much better. As she straightened her skirt, she felt something wet under her hand. Damn.  
  
Sometimes she wished that there wasn't so much body fluid involved in sex. It was a lot like eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich - you always ended up all sticky, and often with various spots and stains as well.  
  
Then again if sex was a neat activity, it probably wouldn't be half as fun.  
  
As Buffy passed by the café again, she grabbed a couple of napkins, licked at them, and begun trying to remove the spots as she walked away. She passed the table where John Doe's friends were still sitting, acting as if they hadn't been interested in the alley action. As she looked at them, they stared back at her with a combination of fear and excitement.  
  
"Hey, what are you looking at?" Buffy's eyes narrowed, and she threw the paper towel in the approximate direction of the waste basket next to the entrance, " I hope you don't have any ideas about me being an all you can eat smorgasbord just because I fucked one of you".  
  
Without any warning, Buffy lunged, then shoved the table the two men were sitting at, sending mugs and table cloth flying through the air, while they stumbled up from their chairs in a state of shock. As she left the chaos on the sidewalk behind her and crossed the street, Buffy felt a rage growing inside of her.  
  
God, it was a miracle that she wasn't completely traumatized when it came to men, all things considered. Before today she had slept with four guys - one turned evil afterwards and killed a bunch of people, one dumped her after the first night, one went to vampire hookers, and one tried to rape her. Great. Just great. She couldn't believe that one of them actually was staying in her house. What the hell was she thinking? He tried to rape her! He...  
  
She closed her eyes for a second, and she was back on the bathroom floor, struggling against his rough grip, looking up at the man who claimed that he loved her. This time, when she remembered it, it was different. Buffy didn't feel sad or broken, she was more embarrassed that he had been able to wrestle her down and dominate her.  
  
She had been a weak, sobbing girl that had let herself be conquered. Her, the Slayer, weak. It was disgusting.  
  
As she walked down the street, caught up in her own thoughts, her eyes fell on something shiny in the window of a small antique shop. Buffy remembered she had been there with Giles a few times. The store didn't exactly have a magic theme, but there were still on occasion a few items - urns, amulets and other trinkets, that were of interest. But what caught her eye wasn't something magical, but something sharp and deadly, and she just had to have it. She didn't even bother to check if the store was open, and she smashed the window and reached out for the weapon.  
  
Twenty minutes later, after three failed attempts to hail a cab, Buffy realized that she probably shouldn't use the hand holding the sword to hail them. It was a shame that the sword bearing minority were being discriminated against by cab drivers.  
  
A few minutes later, after she hid the sword behind her back, a cab finally stopped, and Buffy got in. Being ignored by the previous, asshole cab drivers had made her mood even worse now.  
  
"Where to, Miss?", the driver asked with a chipper voice, which faded as he found himself eye-to-eye with the tip of a sword.  
  
"Revello Drive. 1630." The soulless Slayer leaned back into the seat, caressing the cool finish on the blade. She lifted her chin and smiled a sinister smile, "And hurry up, I've got things to do."  
  
* * * * * "Hey Spike", Anya said, addressing the vampire lying in the back seat, "Can you really read under that blanket?"  
  
"Uhuh", was the muffled response, "Sorta. Umf! But it would be easier if your driving was smoother."  
  
"What?"  
  
"You're speeding!" he complained, "The last thing we want right now is to get pulled over by the police. It would look suspiciously like you're hauling a dead body under this blanket, which of course, you are, just one that would explode into flames if found. It seems like... Bugger!!"  
  
"If I've gotten this right, umf!" Spike felt one of the wheels thump against the curb, "we have til sunset to save their souls."  
  
"Save their souls, sounds kind of religious ", Anya said tensely. She looked out the window and saw with growing alarm that the sun was sinking down behind the silhouettes of reddish suburban roofs.  
  
"Ok, so we go to the house," she jabbered, trying to convince herself, "We find the vessel that sucks scoobie souls, and break it. No biggie!"  
  
"Then we are a full team," she went on, "and we can stop the bad guy from using your soul to suck away the souls of everybody else. Totally do-able."  
  
"Right, Spike?", she asked him anxiously.  
  
He was concentrating on the text in front of him, and didn't answer.  
  
"Right, Spike?!", she repeated louder.  
  
"What?" he twisted his head under the blanket, "Oh... yeah, we'll save the soddin' world."  
  
Then his eyes turned back to the text. "Buffy will," he said quietly.  
  
There was a loud clang against the side of the car, most likely made by a trash can that wasn't quick enough to get out of the way. It made Spike twitch a little bit.  
  
"Bloody hell! Be careful!, he growled.  
  
"So, how do we kill him?" Anya asked, ignoring his tone.  
  
"It's." He looked closer, almost touching the page with his nose, "He's mystically connected to the vessel. We break it before it can change back to it's original form and the Koz'sha will be thrown back to his original dimension once and for all. Probably already sucked that one dry of souls the wanker will starve to death."  
  
"The vessel." he paused, trying to make sense of the text, "It will only stay in it's false form until sunset."  
  
Anya looked out the side window once more, and saw that the sky was being painted light orange now by the setting sun. The streets were still filled with people that were trying to finish their errands before the stores closed.  
  
Without any warning, the car halted with screeching tires, throwing Spike forward into the back of the front seat, then back again. After a few "umfs" and "ughs", he found himself laying on the floor, luckily still wrapped in the blanket. Shaken, not stirred.  
  
"Anya," he shouted, trying to crawl back into the seat without exposing himself to last of the direct sunlight, "Oi. you stupid bint now what are you doin'?"  
  
He didn't get an answer.  
  
The vampire heard her leaving the car instead. Then through the open door, he could hear her quick steps as she was crossed the street. Next a distant whining and a shout, and then the high-pitched noises were heard. The sounds suddenly became muffled, even though he could tell they were coming closer.  
  
The inarticulate sounds suddenly filled the car, and as Spike peeked out from the cover of the blanket, he saw what they were coming from.  
  
Dawn! He felt a rush of intense relief. Bit, was ok. She really was ok.  
  
"Hold her!" Anya commanded, and he did as she wanted, making sure that he kept his arms and hands out of the sunlight as he reached for Dawn.  
  
Anya ran around the car, slammed the door shut, and instantly the car was moving again. He heard what was most likely the child-proof lock being engaged. It was confirmed when, the struggling and screaming teenager managed to yank loose one arm, and tried unsuccessfully to open the door presumably in an attempt to escape.  
  
Spike was still feeling high from the notion of Dawn's presence, though rather confused, "Anya, what's goin' on? Why does it seem we are kidnappin' Dawn?"  
  
"Dawn was walking around in hospital clothes, carrying this." Spike felt something heavy hit his covered self, and he recognized the feel of a crossbow.  
  
Of course... Dawn was also affected. Why didn't they think of that?  
  
"Listen now, Dawnie", Anya's attempt at a soothing voice sounded condescending, "You have gone completely insane, but that's ok, aunty Anya will make you normal again."  
  
"You crazy demon bitch! Leave me alone!", Dawn screamed and struggled to get out of Spike's grip.  
  
"It's ok pet", Spike said, making a futile attempt to reassure her.  
  
Dawn suddenly recognized his voice. "Spike, is that you!?" Dawn shouted, "What the hell are you doing here? Are you on her side!?"  
  
"Not on anyone's side," Spike was rather sure that he wasn't making a big impression, "It's just. You've gone wonky, just like the other two..."  
  
" Liar, it's you that's wonky. You are sick! Both of you! Is this some kind of evil demon/vampire plan to take over the world?" She was struggling, frantic, breathing hard through clenched teeth, then she gasped, "Are you gonna use me to open some creepy dimension or something? That's it, isn't it?"  
  
"I really can't believe," Anya sighed, "that they don't put mute buttons on people under 20."  
  
Dawn continued to screech nasty epithets.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Buffy wasn't happy. She'd forgotten that the house was all bloody and trashed, and she sighed with frustration as she walked into the hallway.  
  
The tiny blonde poked with the sword at the stained hallway rug. Perhaps Willow could do a spell? Why had they never thought of that before? It would, after all, prove much cheaper than replacing and fixing everything every time mayhem and all his cousins came to visit.  
  
The Slayers eyes went cold. Despite all the blood already on the floor, there was still someone standing that shouldn't be. Her breathing became deep and slow, and Buffy savored the weight of the sword in her hand. It felt like power, and she liked it.  
  
It wasn't like she'd killed a boyfriend before, she reasoned with her self. Ok, one, but who's counting?  
  
A sound coming from behind the basement door interrupted Buffy's self reflection. She hadn't noticed until now, but there was a chest of drawers in front of it.  
  
Ok, somebody, that wasn't her, had locked somebody else in. What's up with that?  
  
The Slayer tried not to make any sound as she approached the basement, knowing all to well that if Spike was the one down there, he would be well aware of her presence. Quickly, she pushed the chest away, and yanked the door open.  
  
Before Buffy could initiate her attack, Xander came tumbling out, knocking her to the floor.  
  
"Xander, what's going on?" Buffy threw him off, and got to her feet, "Why are you tackling me?"  
  
"Buffy?" He seemed surprised to see her, but his expression quickly changed into rage, "You almost killed Dawn, you slayer bitch!"  
  
"Hey!" Buffy waved the sword in the air, clearly upset, "Who are you calling slayer bitch?! That's Faith's title, you know!"  
  
Then she remembered her mission.  
  
"Where's Spike?!" she demanded.  
  
"Spike?!" Xander took a deep, disturbed breath, "I should have known - you're in this together!"  
  
"With Spike? As if!" She was now yelling at the top of her lungs, "And into what?"  
  
Xander's chest was heaving, "Well, I don't know! but I know it's something! You beat your sister up, and then Spike is here and gets with that slutty ex-fiancee of mine!"  
  
"You have completely lost it, sidekick boy!"  
  
"Hey...! Watch it!"  
  
"Ooh, what are you gonna do? Kill me with your amazing super power of mediocrity?" Buffy leaned against the sword with a scornful smile, "Rob us of your indispensable services as comic relief? How will we ever be able to fight evil again?"  
  
With a angry roar, Xander grabbed a big vase from a nearby table and lunged towards her.  
  
"Oh no, he's coming at me with The Vase of Death!", Buffy taunted, "Duck and cover!"  
  
The girl stepped aside, and pushed him to the floor. In a split second, he found the tip of the sword pinned against his throat.  
  
"Recap." Buffy smiled savagely, "I'm the slayer, and you suck."  
  
"Buffy!" Came from the front door.  
  
The Slayer knew that voice all too well.  
  
Without moving the sword away from Xander's throat, she turned to the hallway.  
  
"Oh, look, if it isn't the dynamic duo?" She clenched her teeth and looked past Anya, straight at Spike, "The mass murdering vengeance demon and the rapist. Figures you two would team up."  
  
Show time.  
  
Buffy lifted the sword and started to walk slowly towards Spike. Their eyes met in silence, and Spike knew the sword was ment for him. Buffy wanted to kill him.  
  
If she could, she would kill him.  
  
"Go, find the vessel," he addressed Anya without taking his eyes off Buffy. From the corner of his eye, he saw his demon partner leave his side and run towards the kitchen.  
  
Buffy came closer lifting her sword into a striking position.  
  
"Are you afraid of me?", The Slayer asked with a cold smile. Then she laughed, tilting her head to the side.  
  
"You know," she said, "you once told me all about about slayers. You said we have a death wish, remember? You asked me to dance, I told you never with you, you were beneath me and then you came to my house with a gun but you couldn't do it. That's typical interaction between the two of us, don't you think?"  
  
Spike was trying hard NOT to think not to feel and definitely not see what was in her eyes. Once again Buffy was holding his heart in an iron grip, and every second he kept looking at her, meeting her gaze, it became tighter. Spike couldn't look away. It was like looking at a burning car wreck. He was hypnotized, frozen like a deer in headlights, just standing there, waiting for the end.  
  
She hated him, and he deserved it. Spike knew better then any one that he was a bad man.  
  
"You have one of those death wishes too," Buffy continued, while they slowly turned, dancing a deadly dance around each other, "You've had it ever since you became new and improved. You came here yesterday because you want me to take you out of your misery, isn't that right? Deep inside you do. You're like a horse with a broken leg. You're in pain, and there's no way out."  
  
Spike saw her tense for attack.  
  
"Buffy will make it all better."  
  
"You undead bastard!" Xander suddenly came flying to the air, knocking Spike to the ground. His fist came smashing down several times into Spike's face with surprising force before Spike caught his hand.  
  
In the sudden silence, Spike heard the smashing sounds from Anya's quest.  
  
"Get out of my way, Xander!" Buffy shoved him away from Spike, and raised her sword once more with the expression of pure hatred in her face.  
  
Every thing seemed to slow down to this one second. This was one of those classic life changing moments. Those few, but memorable moments when you made that really crucial split second decision. Stay and watch the plane leave or make that dash to the gate to tell the woman of your dreams that you love her? Steal the dropped wallet or alert its owner? Die for your sins or live?  
  
They say that right before you die your life flash before your eyes. Spike had always wondered about that, about how someone could squeeze a life's worth of experiences into a split second, but now he understood. It wasn't like a videotape on fast-forward, more of instant emotional summary that surged through the guts, the heart, the soul. It reverberated through him, through his very essence. Cecily, Drusilla, dying, death, killing, Angel, blood, London, Prague, Sunnydale, Buffy, love, soul, the sword. The sword coming down at him...  
  
And then... Spike made that decision. He rolled to the side, leaving the sword to crash down into the floor without touching his dead flesh, or impaling his non-beating heart in its course.  
  
Spike remembered. He remembered the look in her eyes just the day before. Buffy had told him that she wasn't going to stake him. Dying is easy, she'd said. It's living that's the challenge.  
  
And now Spike knew. He didn't want to go to hell today.  
  
The sword burrowed into the wooden floor beneath them with a loud thump, and then there was a silence, broken only by Buffy's rapid breathing.  
  
It was like everything froze, and time had stopped.  
  
Buffy's eyes met Spikes  
  
"Buffy", he whispered, "I'm gonna make it all right."  
  
Suddenly there was a strange buzzing sound, and Buffy instinctively threw herself to the side, pulling the sword with her. The arrow hit the wall behind Buffy and all Spike could do was stare down the hallway.  
  
"Were you even gonna visit me at the hospital?" Dawn shouted through clenched teeth, "or were you just gonna beat me up and leave me to die?" She had managed to free herself from the rope that Anya had tied her to the car seat with, and Dawn was definitely not in a good mood.  
  
Anya peeked out from the kitchen, silently wishing that there had been some sort of girl scouts in her childhood days. She could have used some of the things they learned, cause seriously, she had to admit her knots sucked. The two thousand year old demon reasoned to herself, as she got back to her frenzied smashing, that there hadn't been any electricity or a structured society either, so selling cookies and learning camping essentials was probably to much to ask.  
  
"Dawnie", Buffy reprimanded her sister, lifting the sword in front of her, "Can't you see I'm busy?"  
  
"Dawn! Thank God, You're ok!" Xander's voice cut through the room.  
  
"Well, yeah," Dawn loaded another arrow, "No thanks to her!" Pulling the bow string into place she continued "I guess it all makes sense -it's not like I'm REALLY your sister anyway, so why would you care?"  
  
Spike was quickly on his feet, shouting "Dawn, don't!"  
  
As he ran towards her, the vampire felt a sharp pain in his upper body Spike looked down and saw a shiny, blood-stained sword blade sticking out of his chest. Pain surged through his body and made him fall limp to his knees. Spike turned slightly and caught the sight of Buffy struggling in Xander's grip. If Harris had he not interfered with the slayer's aim, Spike would no doubt be dust.  
  
The vampire fought to stay conscious. Inch by inch, Spike managed to pull the sword from his body. He gurgled up blood, then fell on weak arms, panting from the shock and the pain. Through the pain Spike felt a pair of arms pulling at him, he looked up and saw Anya's concerned eyes.  
  
Spike found himself up against the living room wall, with Anya supporting him. Their three friends became louder but thankfully the voices moved on to the kitchen. The yelling was then joined by the sound of porcelain, china and other kitchen stuff being smashed.  
  
"You look bad Spike" commented Anya  
  
"I'll live", he told Anya, "Find the vessel - we're running out of time."  
  
"I know", Anya looked around in the room, "but I have no idea what to look for. It could be pretty much anyt..."  
  
One might expect that the arrival of an evil being would be announced by a big shining light, a loud thunder, or at least some kind of trumpet-blowing guy in a corny outfit, but no, not with this one. The soul eater was suddenly just standing there in front of Anya and Spike. And to their embarrassment, the appearance made both the demon and the vampire jump.  
  
Strangely enough it seemed in real life, monsters tended to be scarier in daylight and in well-lit settings than in the dark boiler rooms or foggy graveyards of the movies.  
  
The evil creature's black clothing fluttered around him like a wounded crow would fighting for its life. The monster radiated darkness, pure, undiluted darkness, death and anguish and misery, all rolled up into one box. It was was partly transparent, and appeared a dark, creepy shadow, floating in mid- air.  
  
Corporeal enemies were the easy ones - just reach for an axe, slice and dice, done. The not so solid, like this thing appeared to be, were always the tricky ones. Usually there was a need for some sneaky, possibly magical, solution, to fight this type of demon, and since Spike was damn sure that there weren't any packages in the Summer's fridge labeled "sneaky magical solution", he knew they were all in trouble. In fact, if they didn't find the vessel they were totally screwed.  
  
Spike still panting from pain, just stared at the present threat realizing with growing horror that for once he had absolutely no idea what to do.  
  
Wasn' t he the Big Bad? The vampire had killed and torn apart everything that got in his way for so long. Bloody hell! But now he was bleeding like stuck pig, leaning against the wall, and looking at his nemesis with what he was sure looked like fear in his eyes. It wasn't the selfish fear, something he only experienced from time to time, it was the fear that after everything, he would be used as the tool to hurt and kill. People were in danger, and he didn't know what to do.  
  
It wasn't like he hadn't faced danger and apocalypse before, but this was different.  
  
Being soulless made it easy for you to be quite care-free. Sure, Spike had feared for his own life a few times. The thought of Buffy and/or Dawn being in trouble had never failed to fill the vampire with horror. Now there were all these soddin' complex bursts of empathic feelings that clouded his mind, and strangely made him dizzy and nauseous. Or perhaps that was just the open wound through his torso.  
  
Anya, who had been squatting next to Spike, quickly stood up, trying her best to keep her poker face.  
  
"Ehm..." she wiped the blood of her hand and stretched it out towards the dark being, "I don't know if we've met. I'm Anyanka, you've probably heard of me."  
  
The being didn't react.  
  
"Oookay," she let her hand fall back to her side, "So, what's new in the demon community?"  
  
Spike tried hard not to get distracted by the pain.  
  
"Anya" he whispered with a strained voice, "Go, find it."  
  
Anya nodded, and turned to make a dash for the stairs.  
  
"No", the being said.  
  
Anya felt a burning sensation in her arm, as she was yanked backwards like a rag doll. The vengeance demon looked over her shoulder, and saw that a black limb was holding her in a tight grip. The thing had materialized his fingers to reach out for her, and now Anya was stuck. She struggled to get free, but it wasn't about to let her go.  
  
"You will not interfere," the darkness ordered.  
  
Anya noticed that it's lip area didn't move. It was more like the evil thing's words echoed through their minds in some kind of telepathic manner. The other arm started to transform. Parts of the left side of it's body seemed to be changing step-by-step into a some what of a solid, in the process the creatures fingers grew sharper and sharper, forming X-men's Wolverine-like claw. Anya stared in terror at the being, while with increasing frenzy she tried to escape it's grip.  
  
"I will see that you will not succeed in your quest, An-yan-ka", he continued, aiming for her gut with the claws.  
  
Spike's fist struck the semi-solid being, and it had quite an interesting effect, like punching a bathtub full of gum. Spike and the being tumbled to the floor.  
  
As soon as they hit the floor, the Koz'sha quickly returned to it's original non corporeal state, and Spike found himself pass through his enemy, momentarily being surrounded by darkness. Spike got to his feet as soon as vampirely possible, and watched the thing in front of him, trying to anticipate it's next move. The din from the kitchen created by the other three in the house had still not stopped, and the scoobies were obviously too busy to take any notice of what was going on in the living room.  
  
To Spike's surprise, the darkness didn't lash out at him, it just stood there, looking at him, which bothered Spike. The Vampire's instinct told him something strange was happening.  
  
A glowing green ball of light was growing in the palm of the being's "hand". Spike arched his brow, feeling his muscles grow tense.  
  
"Vampire you are a great specimen, and you'll serve me well", the Koz'sha lifted his hand. Spike threw a fist at him, but it went right through the being's body, and he almost lost his balance.  
  
Spike backed away, although he knew all too well there was nowhere to go.  
  
"Would you like to be rewarded for your services?", the Koz'sha reached out towards Spike, "Oh, wait, you'll be dead, so there's probably no point."  
  
As the being's palm touched Spike's chest right over his unbeating heart. A flash of emerald light shone around Spike's body. Within seconds the vampire's body started to convulse, and he let out sharp gasps, as the pain increased they quickly became a scream.  
  
"Don't worry", the Koz'sha said calmly, "It'll soon be over."  
  
Anya stumbled, feeling an invisible wave crashing through her. She glanced out the window and saw a couple of pedestrians outside wobbling then falling to the ground.  
  
It was already happening.  
  
Anya looked over to Spike she saw an expression of unspeakable pain on his face, his body hanging limp in the beings grip.  
  
"Spike!", she shouted, and started for him.  
  
"Find it, Anya," he managed some how to get the words out before he passed out.  
  
Anya stared around her, scanning the living room for suspect items. "Shit!" Except for just the other day, she hadn't been been in Buffy's house for quite some time. She wasn't sure what to look for. What was different? Was there something new?  
  
Anya managed to duck a frying pan that had come flying from the kitchen. Anya glanced at the fighting trio, and was glad that Xander was still alive...  
  
...Oh yeah, and Dawn and Buffy too.  
  
The last rays of sun were spiking through the trees outside, she looked back to the dying vampire, and Anya started to panic. She had never been good under pressure. Vengeance was, after all, best served slow and cold.  
  
Hurry now, No time! What was new? Had she seen that flower pot before? Shit, she didn't know! Was that a new painting? Had she seen that... What the hell? She stared at the item on the other side of the room.  
  
Buffy wouldn't possibly...?  
  
Suddenly Anya felt like she was in one of those cartoon scenes the type where big signs and blinking arrows pointed at an object, signaling the message.  
  
"Vessel. Smash to save the day."  
  
The vengeance demon slipped passed the black being, Anya felt like she was moving in slow motion as she reached for the object. The Koz'sha seeing what she was attempting, reached out after her, but she dodged him, grabbed the object, and threw it down in front of her. The Picachu lamp crashed to the floor. There came a loud, pain-filled howl from the Koz'sha, he stumbled, and dropped Spike's lifeless body.  
  
Anya saw movement in the corner of her eye, as she turned the shards of the lamp were turning into black feathers. The dark lines scrambled around, twitching in a coordinated movement, but finally fell to the floor in a pile of dead, dry sticks. In the background, Koz'sha screamed like a manic opera singer. In a matter of seconds the dark creature started to distort, then was sucked into an invisible wormhole, folding into himself, and then, with a loud whoosh he was gone.  
  
In the kitchen Buffy screamed "You little brat!" raising the sword, "I'll teach you what happens when you disrespect your older sister!"  
  
"Bitch!" Xander hollered, ready the kitchen knife that he was holding to stab into Buffy's chest.  
  
Abruptly, as by a flip of the remote, they all froze.  
  
After a moment of confusion, they looked at each other with terror.  
  
"Oh my god!", Xander gasped, dropping the knife, and backing up until he hit the wall behind him.  
  
Dawn looked up at Buffy without finding words, and Buffy met her eyes with a panicked expression on her face.  
  
"I'm sorry, I..." Buffy stuttered, "I didn't want to... I didn't mean to..."  
  
Suddenly something in the living room caught the Slayer's eye, and she turned.  
  
Spike lie there on the floor his entire body covered in blood and his skin was no longer the usual pale vampire tone. It was almost translucent white, with an ashy nuance around the mark on his chest. The vampire's body seemed lifeless.  
  
"Come on, Spike," Anya sat on her knees next to him leaning over his prone body. She shook his shoulders "this is nothing!"  
  
Buffy was breathing hard, and she felt dizzy. The images in her head were spinning as she slowly made her way into the living room, finally standing next to him. The Slayer looked down at the seemingly dead vampire, blinking a few times, trying to make sense of it all.  
  
"Anya", she said with a hoarse voice, "He'll be okay, won't he? I mean, if he's not dust, he'll be ok, right?"  
  
Anya considered lying, and hesitated, then looked at Buffy.  
  
"It's not that easy. Not with magic," her shoulders dropped a little as she spoke, "Physical wounds are pretty much a dust/no dust thing, but magic is tricky. The truth is that these kind of things can progress. He could drop dead tomorrow for all I know. The wound from the blade will heal ok, but..."  
  
Buffy stared down at the sword that she still clenched in her hand. After she froze for a moment it dropped to the floor. Buffy slowly backed away with an empty look in her eyes.  
  
"Buffy...?" Anya looked at her with concern.  
  
Turning then she ran as fast as she could up the stairs. With fumbling fingers she managed to open the bathroom door and lock it behind her. As if in a trance, the turned on the shower and stepped into it. Her stained clothing fell to the wet shower floor, and Buffy started frantically scrubbing the blood from her hands, while staring at the white tile on the bathroom wall, trying not to think.  
  
A few seconds later, she felt her hands starting to shake, and the sponge fell down to the wet floor with a small splat.  
  
It had caught up with her. 


	9. Move Along, Nothing to See Here

Dawn and Xander were sitting by the kitchen table. The silence in the room was the tangible variety that one could almost reach out and take hold of. It was dense and thick, and so highly-charged that it could fulfill a small country's energy needs for a year if the scientific community only had the means to harvest it.  
  
Dawn was a creepy mannequin, complete with pale complexion and dull, non- blinking eyes. The hospital clothes completed the bizarre look, the green hues in the outfit making her look even more ill than what could, quite accurately, be blamed on her recent near-death experience. On the other side of the table, Xander was squirming. There was an uncomfortable feeling growing in his gut, a nasty physical symptom of the denial that was fighting for domination in his overwhelmed mind.  
  
"It's not like it would have mattered anyway," he blurted out. "I mean, so what if I would have chopped Spike's head off? He's dead anyway, right?"  
  
He looked over at Dawn for reassurance, but she was too lost in her guilt- induced trance to respond to his questions.  
  
"Yep, dead alright," Xander spoke a bit louder now, answering his own question. "That would have been like a tiny advancement on the general scale of aliveness. An inch on the existential ruler or something."  
  
He crossed his arms over his chest and tried to look convinced.  
  
At the other side of the table, Dawn slowly lifted her head to look at him, her eyelashes clumped and coated with tears. Suddenly, she got up from the table and ran into the hallway, heading for the shelter of her room upstairs.  
  
Xander followed and caught her at the base of the stairs, grabbing her arm in a soft, but determined, grip.  
  
"Dawn," he said. "It's not your fault, you know that!"  
  
"I'm a monster!" She yanked her arm away and sat down on a step, hiding her face in her arms. "I tried to kill my own sister! Don't look at me!"  
  
"Remember what Anya said?" Xander squatted down next to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. "He stole our souls. Not even Buffy could fight it, and she's the Slayer. We're the sidekicks, we're supposed to break under pressure."  
  
"Really?" Dawn lifted her chin and looked at him, her eyes filled with anger and distress. "Spike had no soul when he let himself get tortured by Glory to save my life... or when he fought side by side with us all last summer when Buffy was dead!"  
  
Xander was annoyed that Dawn had the nerve to defend Spike, but he did his best to sound neutral and pedagogical as he spoke.  
  
"Spike did most of those things for selfish reasons, and you know what he did to Buffy before..."  
  
"Shut up Xander!" Dawn interrupted him sharply. "Don't you think I know all that? That's not the point. Yeah, Spike was bad, but he did good things too, even though he didn't have a soul!"  
  
"And," Dawn resumed her sobbing, "I didn't!"  
  
"Dawnie, nothing happened," Xander embraced the small, shaking figure. "Nobody killed anybody, ok?"  
  
At that moment, Xander heard the door to the guest room open, and as he looked up he saw his ex-fiancee standing at the top of the stairs. He let go of Dawn and stood up, searching her face for news.  
  
Anya hestitated for a moment, choosing her words.  
  
"He's not dust yet," she stated frankly.  
  
"Well..." Xander replied, "...um, that's great."  
  
Now Dawn stood up too, wiping her tears away with her sleeve.  
  
"He's going to be ok, right?" she asked.  
  
"I'm not very good at magical stuff, but as far as I can sense, his unlife is pretty much hanging by a thread." Anya wasn't going to soften it for them. "I'd guess that it's about 50/50. All the life-force is sort of sucked out of him. If there are some kind of last rites for vampires, it's time to call the priest by now. Or probably not a priest. Or anything involving holy water or crosses."  
  
Xander looked over at Dawn. Her horrified expression was painful to see.  
  
"Okay, we get the picture," he said, trying to cut the deathdiscussion short. "There's nothing we can do - we just have to wait and see."  
  
Dawn let out an indistinct whimper of distress, ran up the steps, passed Anya without making eye contact, and disappeared into her room.  
  
"He's a strong fella," Xander shouted after her. "I'm sure he'll pull through..."  
  
But before he could finish the sentence, he heard her slam her bedroom door shut behind her, leaving the two ex-lovers alone on the staircase.  
  
Xander and Anya looked at each other, then he climbed up the stairs to meet her.  
  
"So, about Buffy," Xander tried to keep things on neutral ground. "Any sign of her planning to leave the bathroom any time soon?"  
  
"Nope, doesn't seem like it," Anya sighed, "but she can't stay in there forever, you know. There's no food, unless there's any actual fruit in those fruity soaps by the sink."  
  
"She seemed really upset," Xander cast a concerned glance in the direction of the bathroom, "I hope she'll be okay."  
  
"Well," Anya theorized, "You guys have no experience in being evil. It takes some getting used to."  
  
"Really? Getting used to?" Xander felt a sudden boldness coming on. "That's what happened to you? Cause it seemed easy enough to make the choice to turn evil again."  
  
"Hey!" Anya snapped, revealing that he'd managed to stir her anger yet again. "That was all your fault!"  
  
"Oh really?!" Xander was done with hanging his head. "I don't remember putting a gun to your temple!"  
  
"Whatever!"  
  
"What! Ever!"  
  
The starircase was completely silent for several minutes, as the two of them glared at each other, waiting to see who would take the next shot.  
  
Finally Xander started to squirm.  
  
"Listen," he said, looking away, pulling his arms tight around his body. "I'm.. I'm sorry that...I'm sorry about what I said earlier. You know, when I was soulless. And..."  
  
Xander took a deep breath, then said it.   
  
"Thanks for saving us all."  
  
"Yeah," Anya shifted her weight, studying the patterns on the wallpaper intensely, avoiding his eyes. "Without me, all of you would still be total psychopaths. And half of the rest of the country too."  
  
"Half the rest of the country?"  
  
"Long story."  
  
Silence.  
  
"I'm..." Anya tensed up, then continued. "I'm sorry I tried to exert evil vengeance things on you. That's... not polite."  
  
"Right," Xander said with a tired voice.  
  
"So, what do we do now?" Anya finally looked at him. "I still like you. I know that you called me a slut and that I tried to kill you, but that's doesn't have to mean that we can't be together."  
  
"Eh...?" Xander looked confused but hopeful. "I thought you hated me. And yes, Anya, that's usually the kind of stuff that would keep couples apart."  
  
"Well, only if they have watched too much Oprah," Anya said mopily. "By the way, that bitch has destroyed the vengeance scene for a decade now. I should sue her, like those meat farmers did. I mean, she has dissed vengeance much more than animal carcasses through the years!"  
  
"Eh..." Xander sighed. "If that makes you happy, honey, sue away. What I mean is, a lot of things have happened, and it would take a lot of hard work to get this thing between us to work again."  
  
"Yeah. Sure."  
  
Silence.  
  
"Hey, Xander," a tiny smile spread across her face. "Wanna go to your place and have sex?"  
  
"Eh...Anya, we can't just..." Xander paused for a second, considering, then smiled back. "Well, yeah!"  
  
* * * * *  
  
Buffy was sitting in the steamy bathroom with her back against the door. Although she'd wrapped herself in a couple of bathroom towels, she was still feeling cold inside and out. Looking down at the small spots of blood that had dripped from her hands to the floor earlier, she forced herself to take deep, slow breaths as she blinked through the memories that once again flooded her consciousness.  
  
It was like she had been watching one of those lousy soap operas where the evil twin leaves the good one tied up in some lonely storage room that nobody ever uses, then takes over her life.  
  
She pulled the towels tighter around her shivering body.  
  
She hadn't even fought it. The darkness had taken her over.  
  
And it had felt good, it really had.  
  
She stifled a sob as that realization hit her. She had never really been able to put herself in Angel and Spike's position before, but now she understood - being bad tasted good. It was freedom, complete freedom, and she had thrown herself into it without hesitation when it came for her.  
  
She'd never had much interest in the mythologichical history of the slayer phenomenon, but she understood that there was an element of darkness in the power.  
  
From time to time, she had felt it.  
  
She had felt it pulling at her, whispering her name, telling her that her nature wasn't beautiful and bright, but she had always pushed it away.  
  
I'm not beautiful and bright, she thought, and her eyes once more were drawn to the dried spots of Spike's blood in front of her, and the tears came again. Nobody knew that better than him - that she wasn't all meadows and bird song. The way she had treated him...  
  
It had been all about her, of course.  
  
She hadn't allowed those thoughts to show their ugly faces before, even when they were screaming loudly inside of her, trying to catch her attention. All those times she had hit him, yelled at him, called him names - he was the mirror image of everything she hated in herself.  
  
And now he might be dying.  
  
He did the white hat thing - got a soul, tried to help them, and now he might be paying with his life for trying to make things right. She gasped as the image of the sword that she had shoved through his body burned itself into her fragile mind.  
  
She had tried to kill him. She almost...  
  
Buffy felt overwhelming grief filling her, taking her over, causing physical pain. She closed her eyes tightly, as if to make the reality go away, but she wasn't that lucky.  
  
The scorpion on the tortoise's back.  
  
That's what he had said when she had asked him why he did what he did. But now she wondered - when she had treated him like dirt all those times, perhaps that, after all, was her nature, too?  
  
Like him, she tried to keep the darkness from surfacing, do the right thing, fight the good fight. But in the end she couldn't run from her nature.  
  
When the demon did his evil mojo, she was the first to succumb.  
  
She was the Chosen One and yet she had turned evil in a heartbeat.  
  
She was suddenly pulled out of her deep thoughts by the sound of loud crying in the next room.  
  
Oh god, Dawn.  
  
Hoping her legs would carry her, she crawled out from the little nest she had created and shuddered as the cold air hit her. She looked over at the wet pile of clothes that lay on the floor of the shower, then reached out with shaking fingers for the bathrobe behind her.  
  
As she unlocked the door, she was surprised to find the house quiet except for the sobs from Dawn's room. Where was everybody? Where was Xander and Anya. And... Spike?  
  
They'd stopped the banging at the door and the yelling of cheerful phrases like "I'm sure you didn't mean to become a psycho killer!" and "Don't listen to Anya, she's certifiable!" an hour ago, and after that, she hadn't payed much attention to what was going on outside her Dungeon of Self Loathing.  
  
Now the house felt empty and creepily silent.  
  
She crossed the hallway to Dawn's bedroom. As she pushed open the door with the big note saying "Keep out, or I'm SO gonna stake you!," she found the room was dark, lit only by the moonlight falling through the window. Hearing the sobs stop suddenly, she took a deep breath.  
  
"Dawn?"  
  
There was a long moment of silence.  
  
"Buffy..." Dawn's voice was faint. "I'm...I'm sorry."  
  
Buffy reached for the light switch.  
  
As the light flooded the room, Dawn squinted, then blinked in surprise. She was sitting on the bed, her legs pulled up under her. Her eyes were swollen, and her face had the smeared remains of what once had been makeup.  
  
Afraid to break something fragile by coming closer, Buffy stayed in the doorway.  
  
"I..." she whispered, not sure of what to say, "I hurt you. I'm supposed to protect you, and I almost killed you!"  
  
Then she slid down the door post and started to cry.  
  
Dawn was horrified. A semi-parental person couldn't freak out. They weren't allowed to. They were supposed to keep their cool and pretend that everything was ok. Freaking out was totally reserved for people under the age of 18. Not that Buffy had been able to pull off the super-grownup thing before, but still...  
  
"Well, yeah," Dawn pulled up her legs under her chin. "Um... but things were kind of crazy. Apparently some kind of binge-eating demon guy wanted our souls for dinner."  
  
She shifted a little bit.  
  
"Kind of creepy, huh?" she added.  
  
Buffy was crying even harder now, and Dawn felt her own eyes tearing up again. She got off her bed, walked over, then sat down shoulder-to-shoulder with her upset sister, looking straight ahead. They sat there for a few minutes, not looking at each other or speaking. Finally Dawn turned toward Buffy and placed a hand on her shoulder.  
  
"Hey," she leaned her forehead against Buffy's, then moved her hand to stroke Buffy's hair. "I'll forgive you if you'll forgive me, ok?"  
  
Buffy lifted her head and looked at her.  
  
"Of course I forgive you, Dawnie!" she said. "I don't really know what happened, but you were obviously under the influence of something evil."  
  
"Anyway," Buffy smiled a half-hearted smile and tried to sound cheerful. "At least it wasn't hyenas this time, huh?"  
  
Dawn managed a little laugh.  
  
"Yeah," she replied. "I remember that. That was totally bizarre!"  
  
Then her grin turned into a pout.  
  
"Except, I don't really remember that, since I was only a ball of energy back then."  
  
"Our lives," Buffy wiped her wet cheek with the sleeve of the bath robe, "are pretty weird, huh?"  
  
"Yeah," Dawn responded, still looking sad about the fakememory thing. "Good thing Spike and Anya figured this last weirdness out or we would all be in deep shit."  
  
Suddenly, Buffy stiffened, remembering.  
  
"S... Spike," she whispered, more prayer than question. "Is... is he ok?"  
  
"We don't know," Dawn sighed. She had forgotten about that for a moment due to her sisterly heart-to-heart. "He's pretty much the same as when you... um, dashed off."  
  
"Where is he?"  
  
A few minutes later, Buffy stood outside the guest room, staring at the door as if she expected it to grow teeth and bite her. After a minute, her need to know overcame her uncertainty, and she reached out and slowly turned the door knob. She pushed the door open and found herself looking into a dark room.  
  
She hesitated again. What was she afraid of?  
  
Certainly not Spike.  
  
When she finally made herself step into the room, she immediately made out his still form on the bed in front of her. She stared down at him, hoping to spot a small movement or hear a faint sound, but there was nothing.  
  
Taking a shaky breath, she went to the bed. As she drew closer, she could see the features of his pale face, and she felt cold.  
  
He looked so... so suffering.  
  
It was almost like the pain still haunted him even in this unconscious state. She remembered when he had met her eyes the day before. She couldn't really remember ever having seen pain like that before.  
  
She slid down to the floor and reached out her hand, stroking it slowly over his cool forehead.  
  
"I'm so sorry," she whispered.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Tiny droplets of awareness came seeping through the darkness, bursting into small flashes of uncomfortable sensation from the dull ache in body, mind and soul.  
  
He tried to gather his thoughts now and then, but it all seemed like a confusing shadowplay. The thoughts kept bleeding together and overwhelmed him, drowning those few moments when he was almost aware before slipping back into the nothingness.  
  
Was her scent real or did his mind make up stories?  
  
Sometimes he thought that he felt wet cloth against his sore skin. Sometimes he thought he heard her speak...  
  
He couldn't make up his mind if that scared him or soothed him.  
  
How long had he been lying like this?  
  
Darkness. He heard breaths. Were they his? Fingers. Something damp. Was there someone else in the room? Slowly the confusion started to release its iron grip on him, but it was quickly replaced by nausea and dizziness. He became aware of the soreness in his limbs and the burning feeling in his chest. Piece by piece the memories of the last few days started to fall back into place, fueling his fears. The demon. What had happened? Had Anya...?  
  
There were heartbeats. They echoed through the room. Made his head hurt, made him nervous.  
  
"Is someone there?"  
  
A realization came seeping through his broken mind.  
  
"Buffy?" he whispered.  
  
The pace of the breaths from the other side of the room sped up. For a long moment, there was no reply. Forcing his eyes open, he noticed some movements in the shadows.  
  
When she stepped out into the moonlight he was shocked to see how torn she looked. He could see that she had been crying, and there were small spots of blood on the t-shirt that she was wearing. Her hair was pulled up in a loose ponytail that left several wispy strands of hair hanging by the side of her face.  
  
As Spike looked up at her he suddenly felt like a deer in the headlights of a car. His own reactions surprised him. Once it had all been so easy. There had been five, maybe six, emotions to keep track of, and they had all been stored in neat little boxes, clearly labeled. In that moment, Spike understood that it was never going to be that easy again. He hadn't had a soul in a long time, but he seemed to recall how much more complicated things were back then. Not that he had been altogether nuanced then either, but at least his emotional life had been more subtle than "hungry," "horny," "pissed." And here he was, looking at the woman he had yearned after for ages, and he was suddenly struggling with more emotions than he could count. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts.  
  
"Spike."  
  
His eyes snapped wide open at the sound of her voice. It stirred something deep inside of him, something he didn't want to remember. How she had pushed him into the living room wall. How she had abused him. How she had shoved the sword through his body. Her voice sliced through his body and left pain in its path. She had broken him. He had bared his throat to her in his fragile state, and she had torn him apart. His mind said that it wasn't her fault, but that didn't stop his heart from breaking.  
  
"Spike?"  
  
She had taken a couple of steps, and now she was standing still in the middle of the room. She seemed so tense, so hesitant.  
  
"Are you... feeling ok?" Buffy's eyes fell on the wound and remaining discolorations on his tortured chest.  
  
Spike moved his hand over his body, seeking an informed answer to that question, and he drew in a sharp breath when he touched the open wound.  
  
"I'm not in mint condition," he didn't meet her eyes, "but I think I'll be ok. At least the pain... is... a sure sign of that I'm alive."  
  
Buffy bit her lip. "Good."  
  
"The demon?" he asked tensely. Buffy didn't seem soulless anymore, but magic was, after all, unpredictable.  
  
And it always had consequences.  
  
"Um... I don't really know what this whole thing was about. I was kind of busy being evil..."  
  
Buffy paused for a moment and looked to the floor, hiding.  
  
"But Anya smashed something," her voice shook as she continued. "The demon guy went poof, and then everybody un-lost their minds."  
  
Spike looked away, not sure how to continue the discussion. He had everything and nothing to say to her. And he didn't have a clue about Buffy's intentions, which made him uncomfortable.  
  
He was pulled from this thought by the sound of sobs. When he looked up, he found her looking back with raw pain in her eyes. He hadn't seen that expression on her face since those few fleeting moments after their lovemaking when she wasn't on her guard enough to cover up the sorrow that filled her.  
  
"I'm horrible!" she covered her tear-filled eyes with her hands. "I did horrible things to you!"  
  
Spike was stunned.  
  
"You know, he took your soul," he said with a low voice. "There was nothing you could do."  
  
The subject of soullessness and responsibility suddenly hung in mid-air between them. Neither of them had planned to go there, but now it was too late.  
  
"I should have been able to..."  
  
"No, Buffy," Spike said softly before she could finish the sentence. "Don't compare us. It's not the same."  
  
"But..." she finally lifted her eyes to meet his.  
  
"You were right, you know," he said. "I was a serial killer in prison. I was... gettin' rehabilitated a little bit, but... I know that you think I did a few things that weren't completely selfish. But all the tiny specks of humanity I have," he tilted his head a little bit as he looked at her, "I got from you."  
  
Buffy bit her lip.  
  
"It's not just yesterday's deeds I'm talking about," she sounded small and scared, like a child. "You know that."  
  
Spike closed his eyes for a moment.  
  
"Yeah," he said hoarsely. "I know."  
  
"What I did. It was worse than..." her voice faded away. "It was worse. I had a soul. I had a conscience."  
  
She was silent for a moment, waiting, but he said nothing.  
  
"I hurt you," she continued, studying his face, trying to make out what he was feeling.  
  
"Yeah, you did," he said simply, looking at her with eyes full of sadness.  
  
It hit her in the belly with full force. Now, for the first time, she realized that he was becoming a person to her. Not just a random, annoying, fanged being. Evil or not, he had reached out his heart to her, and she had crushed it. That he had been a serial killer in prison didn't make it right. It only made her just as bad as he was.  
  
"I just..." she tried to continue, the words floating on tears. "I try so hard to believe that I was good. That the darkness inside of me wasn't there. But when this soul-sucking thing happened to me, it didn't really feel like something was taken away, it felt like I succumbed to something that was already there."  
  
Anguished, Buffy searched Spike's eyes to see if he shared her contempt, but she wasn't sure what she saw there.  
  
"I felt it with Faith," she confessed, "She pulled me into it. Into the dark side of the slayer's powers. Ehm... I didn't finish taking Psych, so introspection isn't my good side. But when I stabbed her, it felt like I stabbed myself, or... you know, those sides of me or something. But it didn't help, they're still there, and I can't hide from them."  
  
"You know what your problem is, Slayer?" Spikes voice suddenly had that trademark snarky tone that she hadn't heard him use since he had come back. "You've always been bloody full of yourself."  
  
Buffy looked at him in confusion.  
  
"Yeah, that's right." He leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. "You've always thought you were kinda better than the rest of the human race. Or that you should be, at least. Of course you have dark sides. Comes with the `being human` package."  
  
"You think Manson needed some `dark side of the force` crap to go wonkers?" His voice softened some. "Or that Hitler fella? Human's got both sides, and that means making bloody lousy choices from time to time. What makes you think you're any different? What makes you think that you are the fair angel of goodness and light just because you can pound a Morah demon to pulp in twenty seconds?"  
  
Buffy stared. Spike sighed.  
  
"Anya told me," he said, "that she thinks being good is a work in progress, not a label. Think she's right about that. Not like her to be all Yoda- like, huh?"  
  
They looked at each other is silence.  
  
"How do I forgive myself?" Buffy whispered the question.  
  
It sounded over-dramatic, but Spike knew that it was a very realistic concern. As he watched her cover her face in her hands and noticed how her body started to jerk from the heavy sobs he felt almost like her pain echoed in his own chest. Being in that room with her after all she had done hurt him, but so did her pain. For a moment he hesitated. A part of him wanted to run from her, from the emotions she brought out in him. But she was hurting, and she needed him.  
  
Ignoring his aching body and the lingering dizziness, he pushed himself up from the bed and walked over to the crying slayer. As he pulled her into his arms, he felt her cold tears falling onto him, comforting his bruised skin.  
  
Soon his own tears were moistening the golden hair that brushed against his cool cheek. As her arms encircled his aching body he suddenly noticed a small flash of warmth inside of him. It wasn't of the sexual or romantic type. After a moment he recognized it. It was a small experience of healing. They had seen each other's pain in close-up, seen the cause of their actions. And in that moment it was almost like they met in a mutual understanding.  
  
"I dunno, love. How we forgive ourselves, I mean," he whispered through tears as he pulled her closer. "But I think that, too, is a work in progress."  
  
The End. 


End file.
